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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Portland Sale
Leslie Johnson
BD traded for a real nice, seven year old saddle horse, a term generally meaning he was gaited, in this part of the country. He had two real good quarter horse two year olds he’d bought somewhere back country, and since we didn’t fool much with non-gaited horses, the trader who owned the gelding offered to take a loss on his good horse by taking the two we just didn’t need. BD went into the deal with more than a little caution, Talouse had burned him but good a few trades back, and wasn’t one to pass up any opportunity to do it again. He brought the horse over, stepped him off and had him saddled to prove he was, indeed, as broke as he claimed. He was a black Saddlebred, not really a plus around here, and had been a show horse until very recently. There were the rubbed places on his chest, withers and hind legs where a tail set had been in place a long time, and his tail was cut, or “broken”, as some say. It hadn’t been down long enough to grow all the hair back, and was cocked at a crooked angle. I never liked that part of showing gaited horses, anymore than I liked what foolishness went on with “padding” them up and nearly crippling them to get that awkward butt down and front legs flying they thought was so fine. But that’s where the big money is, and you’ll never stop abuse rewarded with cold cash.
BD rode him and I rode him that afternoon, and couldn’t find a flaw in him, so we put him up for a couple of days to get used to the place and rest from the trip back. I got him out, brushed him real good, and tacked up with my favorite plantation saddle, led him to the corral, and got my bucket to get on with. I’m only five feet tall, so even a fifteen hand horse is a climb for me and I’m not as spry as I used to be. I kept noticing he was tense and agitated, not restless per say, but definitely not as calm and accepting as he was before. I figured he’d been Aced then, as was quite common among horse traders, to make him calm and easy to handle for a few hours.
I snapped the end of the lead to a post and just got on and off a few times, to try to gauge what his deal was. He didn’t object, but he was trying to swing his crippled tail, a warning signal for sure. I swung up one more time and sat there, nothing happened, so I unsnapped him and told him to walk off.
He made a few stiff, jerky steps, his ears pinned flat back and mouth foaming. His back was humped and I knew I was in for a bad time, but I might save things yet if I could keep his head up. He shook his head and tried to duck it, then stepped sideways and made himself some room. The back end hopped up a few times, and he was fighting now to get his head down. I had nothing to grab for except the baby fine mane, so a few hard lunges, a twist or two and a mid air buck, and I was gone. I caught him after digging my face out of the dirt, climbed back on with far less enthusiasm than before, and managed this time to get him to walk stiff legged in a circle. Point established, I put him up and waited for BD to get home.
BD put a western saddle on him and swung aboard. That gelding bucked so hard he broke the girth, and when Hervie replaced it and got back on, tried to go over backwards with him. This horse was serious trouble. Well, that explained why he was so cheap at least.
There was no possible way they would have kept him in a tail set that long if they couldn’t ride him, he was a trained horse and no colt. Ring sour? Possible, but he hadn’t objected to going in the gate with me. BD tied him by the halter under his bridle and went to the barn; he thought he just might know what his flaw was. He came back with a rope long enough to use as a lunge line and a buggy whip. As soon as he tied the rope to the end of the lead, the gelding made his circle and began gaiting, then cantering. BD just let him do what he wanted, as long as he didn’t jerk away. Sure enough, he kept up the pace until a sweat broke out, then gradually began slowing down, watching us as he did so. BD let him, and when he’d decided he’d had enough, I walked him around for a few minuets to cool off.
“Try him now,” he said.
I took the girth off my plantation saddle and replaced it with a neoprene one, which were just coming out on the market in those days and very expensive, and cinched just snug enough I could fit my fingers under it. I don’t use the stirrups to haul aboard, so I don’t need the saddle that tight. Once mounted you use the stirrups for balance if needed.
Even though I hadn’t tightened the other girth any tighter than this one, he seemed a lot more relaxed with it. I got my bucket, eased on, and I don’t mind telling you, I was more than a little leery about this. He could buck like a champion, and it had been a long time since a horse threw me that hard. This time he walked right off like a gentleman and I couldn’t have asked for a better ride. He was cold backed and probably cinchy as well, all due to mishandling as a colt, but so ingrained now he was going to be that way whether or no.
I was pretty sure I could get him over being cinchy, and I could live with the lunging before a ride. Whoever bought him was going to have to understand it was not an option, you’d better lunge him or he was going to unload your butt first chance he got.
He had also never been out of a ring much, and the world was a whole ‘nuther experience for this veteran of the show grounds. He was frightened out of his wits by my six hundred pound “potbellied pig”(another story), pavement was eyed askance, and the wide open spaces made him boogery as a colt. This was a city boy and make no mistake. We rode him lightly, but daily, to keep the edge off and help him put on some needed weight and by the time the Portland sale came around, he was fat, slick, and shiny black as any show horse could be.
A friend of BD’s offered to throw the gelding in on a load of quarter horses he was taking up there, so the plan was made to stop about half a mile from the sale, unload the horse, and have my nephew Keith ride him the rest of the way in. This would make sure the lunging at the house worked after a forty five minuet trip, and hopefully make him tired enough to behave well in strange circumstances.
Only a sixteen year old boy would ride a snorty horse half a mile at nearly a dead run through pitch black country roads and fields. The wonder was they arrived at all instead of killing each other in some ditch or over grown fence line. Be that as it may, they arrived, shiny under the lights with sweat, the gelding alert but not flighty, Keith laughing because he’d lost his hat. So far, so good.
BD checked the horse in at the sale, and then rode him around slowly to let people get a good look at him. He was a good looking horse, and on his company manners after an invigorating half mile run in the dark. It wasn’t long before people began stopping him and asking about the price. Since the horse was on the manifest, they’d have to bid on him in the ring, Portland was adamant about that, but deals could be arranged. After awhile, a couple shouldered their way through the small crowd of horse trading cronies and actual potential bidders, and the wife demanded to be allowed to ride the horse. She was a huge woman, built like a football, dressed in overalls and a t-shirt rolled up her beefy arms. Grizzled iron grey hair was cropped a few inches from her head, and her close set eyes were narrow and determined. Standing about level with her elbow was the spouse, a round little man with a floppy straw hat and a baby’s face. Literally. Soft, rounded, hairless and cheerful, in the kind of vague, placid way babies are at rest. Nodding at her booming demands, floppy rim of the hat bobbing up and down, he was there for her.
“Git off’n thet hoss, an let Me try ‘im!” she roared, hands planted on hips, head tilted back. “An none ‘o yore horse tradin’ crap, neither! You ain’t pullin’ nuthin on me, jus cause I’m a woman!” The rest of the conversation was peppered with language I’d certainly heard before, not often from a woman though, and certainly not as loud in mixed company.
BD was offended, and a little surprised, he thought she was the husband and was going to advise him/her to watch his/her tone. Sizing up the new situation, he leaned on the saddle horn and smiled instead.
“I’d be more than glad to, Hon, but he’s not what you’d call dead broke. He’s a good horse, but he’s got a motor to him and a lot of heart. You might want to look at something a little, ah, calmer.” He gave her his best smile, and glanced at me. If I went with him to sales, there was no lying, No “omitting” certain facts. He was to be completely honest with the customer, well, at least as honest as a horse trader can get. It leaves a nasty taste in his mouth.
“Don’t be handin’ me no bullshit! I seen you aridin’ thet hoss all evinin’. I ain’t gonna buy no hoss I ain’t rode first. So, git off’n thet hoss!” she snarled. His attempt at honesty just seemed to make her mad. He gave me his “I’m doing what you wanted” look, then shrugged.
“Ma’am, you understand, right off the bat, he isn’t a kid’s horse or a good choice for an inexperienced rider. You fall off, and it’s too bad about you. Are we all clear about that?” he swung off and offered her the reins.
“I kin ride anything with hair on it!” she sneered. “Ain’t thet right, Honey?” she glared at her spouse. He nodded like a bobble head doll.
“You!” she pointed at Keith, “Git over here an give me a leg up.”
The game was on, now. The other horse traders wouldn’t have left if the sale barn were offering free beer in the snack bar. It took Keith and two other men to “help” her into the saddle, with Hervie hanging on the off side stirrup with all his weight and strength. The gelding was trying to be kept from being dragged over on her side, he spread his fore legs and lowered his head. Once in the saddle she wrenched his head up with brutal hands, and waved her heels impatiently to have the stirrups adjusted. She had those short, heavy work boots on, and they barely fit in the cup, but it was finally managed to her satisfaction, and she thumped the gelding’s ribs hard enough to punch the air out of him.
“Loosen up on the reins, woman!” Hervie admonished as the gelding slung his head at the iron grip on his mouth, “He has a light mouth! You ain’t plowing a field with him!” That drew a round of laughter and a snarled curse from her, but she did, and the horse stepped off smoothly, despite the enormous weight.
“My dear wife is an excellent rider, don’t you think?” the little husband sighed to me. I muttered something agreeable and walked up to mine.
“You can’t sell her that horse, it’s cruel!” I hissed. “She’s way to much weight for him to carry. Don’t be doing something mean here, ok?”
Hervie gave me an injured look. “I let her ride the horse, didn’t I? I told her he wasn’t a kid’s horse or a dead head, didn’t I? I did everything you asked me to do, it’s not my fault she likes the horse. And he can carry her just fine.”
She rode that horse for nearly an hour, despite the fact we tried to get her off. As far as she was concerned, it was a done deal, and she was quite proud of the fact she had slickered the horse trader. He caught her again, just as the horses were getting ready to go through, and with me standing behind him, told her the horse was cold backed and more than a little cinchy.
What the Hell?” she puffed up like a toad. A toad that looked like it could wrestle mules at the State Fair. “What kinda trader’s crap is this? You don’t want me to buy the hoss ‘cause you got offered more money, huh? You (Blanketyblanketyblanketyblankety blank) ! I’m onta you lyin’ cheatin’ horse traders! He cold backed.” she jerked the reins for emphisis, “I’ll puta blanket on ‘im”
“Not cold, “ I interrupted, “Cold backed. It means you have to lunge them bef…”
“That’s bullshit! Horse trader bullshit!” she eyed me as though I were a fish to small to keep. “He makin’ you do the lyin’ for ‘im?”
“Ma’am, I’m telling the facts!” I felt flustered and the center of everyone’s highly amused attention. “Please! Just lunge the horse until he breaks a sweat, then saddle and bridle him. If you don’t, he’ll buck on you. And don’t cinch the saddle too tight! He’s been girthed to tight in the past, and he’s…”
“I’ll tell you like I told him!” she sneered, “I kin ride anything with hair on it! So, don’t waste my time tellin’ me horse trader stories, got it?”
Hervie shrugged and gave me a delighted grin. So, there! The horse was run through the ring as a “No Sale”, the commission was paid to the barn for the sale price, and she paid Hervie for the horse.
A few nights later, at midnight, we got a phone call. It was the woman who bought the black Saddlebred. She roared and swore and carried on as though Hervie had stolen the last Twinkie in the kitchen. The horse was a fool, he was unridable, and she was going to beat Hervie within an inch of his lying, cheating, worthless life! Then get her money back.
“Did you do what we told you to do?” he asked.
She wasn’t so stupid that she’d fall for some horse trader joke, everyone knew there was no such thing as a “cold backed” hoss. Lunge a horse, what kind of joke was that? She ripped off on another tirade, when Hervie interrupted her again.
“Honey, you wanted to trade like a man, and we traded that way. You were told everything we knew about him, and more than enough to let you know what you had to do. Now, does that horse still have hair on him?”
That threw her for a second. “What? Well, Hell yes he does!”
“Then ride him. Good night.” And he hung up.
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