Horse Tradin' by Ben K. Green

got?”
    â€œHe’s a rattler,” he answered.
    â€œI can tell that,” I said, “but where did he get it, and what caused it?”
    Of course, my old horse-trading partner didn’t know any more about the anatomy of a horse or mule than I did in those days, but he tried to explain that this mule’s windpipe had been injured and that he would never be any better. The reason he was so nice and fat was because all he did was eat and drink water and stand around. My partner asked: “What do you think we ought to do with your new stock?”
    I thought a minute and told him: “Take him back and tie him to the rockcrusher!”
    Later that afternoon I traded this mule for two old wore-out, mossy-headed, buck-kneed, big-ankled, bog-hocked, cow horses—both worth about as much as the $10 boot that I had paid. And my almost-good little brown mare was gone, gone.

P oor H eifers

— T he J udge

— W ild M ules
    During the worst
cold spell in the now historical depression that occurred during the thirties, I went into a country store a few miles out from Weatherford, Texas. I had a pasture leased nearby and had been out to feed my herd of heifers. I had gone broke in the big-steer business andhad been buying, trading, and working for some little bitty, sorry, cross-bred, various-colored heifer calves and yearlings. I had about fifty of these little heifers; there were no two of them alike, their value was low, low, low, and I had a pretty low feeling every time I poured out feed to them. Money was scarce, and feed was hard to pay for.

    I had left my horse tied to the south side of the country store, come in the back door, and was hovered up against the stove when some fellows stopped in front of the store with a truckload of horses. The horses were saddled, had sweat dried all over them, and showed that they had been used on some kind of a hard drive. Two of the boys came in the store while the old man was filling up their truck with gasoline. They bought up some of the common things you could get in a country store to eat—canned pork and beans, crackers, canned salmon, a few cookies, and so forth. While they were poking around getting what they wanted, one of them saw me sitting over by the stove. He walked over, warmed his hands, and looked at my boots and spurs. I didn’t have on two-toned boots, wasn’t wearing double-seated britches, and my riggin’ didn’t give off much glamour; so this town cowboy had to ask: “I guess you’re one of the local cowboys?”
    Along about then was one of the few times in my life that I wasn’t necessarily proud of that fact. I answered: “I guess so. Looks like your horses have been stayed with pretty hard.”
    â€œYeah. We came out from Fort Worth to pen that Fort Worth lawyer’s mules up in the mountains, but we didn’t have any luck.”
    I had vaguely heard of the lawyer’s wild mules, but I had never been given a firsthand report on them. With a little persuading, this town cowboy gave me a full report on how wild the mules were, how big the pasture was, how thick the cedar brush was, and how deep the canyons were. He added his personal opinion about what he thought of anybody who would let his livestock business get in the shape that the lawyer had by letting a bunch of wild mules take his ranch away from him. I listened carefully and culled this city cowboy’s conversation for what true facts there might have been in it. I walked out to the truck, humped up in the cold, and looked at the horses. They were a nice bunch of over-fat, wrongly shod, beautifully rigged, soft town horses that had been rode about half to death—and nobody had caught a mule.
    After they drove away, the old country storekeeper came back to the fire. He and I sat there watching the blaze through the open door of the potbellied stove. He finally broke the silence and asked: “Reckon that lawyer in