Welcome To The Bullpen
A Horsetrader's Wife
Leslie Johnson
Being the wife of a horse trader, even a part time one, can lead to interesting predicaments, especially a very broke horse trader who has to sometimes deal with horses nobody else would want. When my husband, Hervie, got a call from a buddy of his with a “real good colt, three year old buckskin, lotsa chrome!”, but just green broke, he fired up the ’65 Chevy we were depending upon at that time and took me with him. He would ride the colt the two miles home, and I would follow in case there was trouble. Despite the fact “green broke “ most probably meant the colt had never been handled closer than the rope to catch him with, Hervie had every confidence he would ride him home.
We got there just as BD and his boys were getting the colt out of the stall he’d been kept in, on full feed, for a month, and he was indeed a big strapping colt, fifteen two or better, about twelve hundred pounds, with four white legs and a broad blaze. He was also full of piss and vinegar, due to his confinement and two square meals a day meant to make him fat and slick. This served two fold purpose in those days, a horse looked better to prospective buyers, and if he turned out to be a liability, killers sold by the pound. This big boy came out the barn hallway on his hind legs, dragging BD’s struggling assistants along behind him like laundry in a high wind.
It only took about an hour to ear the colt down, throw a blanket and saddle on him ten or fifteen times until they could get it cinched, then five or six more tries to get a snaffle in his mouth and over his head. By this time everyone had broken into a foam but the colt, who was in much better shape than the four guys trying to saddle him up. Even Hervie, who is not noted for common sense, decided he’d be all the better for a brisk trot for about a mile before trying to ride him. He tied a rope through the halter and around the colt’s neck, then back through, snubbing it pretty good to an eye bolt someone in the old truck’s previous life had welded to the bed near the tail gate. Maybe to tie the tail gate up with, when she had one. At any rate, the guys all thought the possibility of the colt jerking the rear panel off the truck was pretty slim, once you got him moving, and with a few encouraging swats with a stock pole, some hat flapping, yells and the truck’s own momentum, we got him traveling down the road more or less behind us.
Now Methuselah, as we called the old truck, had served us well and more or less faithfully, the entire six months we owned her. The windshield had rusted free of the cab, so rain and snow could blow in, there was a hole around the gear shift big enough to throw a large dog through, which provided a stunning view of the road below. The passenger side door wouldn’t open from the inside. Other than that, and some cosmetic flaws, she was as cherry as a hundred bucks could ask for. So I was actually surprised when she wheezed, shuddered, and then expired about half a mile down the road. The colt nearly trotted up the back in the bed with Hervie, who quickly abused him of the notion, and after a somewhat heated exchange from fore to aft, he surmised I had not stalled the truck, it had died.
I offered to walk back to BD’s to get a tow, since there was no way I was going to sit there and hold that colt, when Hervie decided that was foolishness, we had “horse power” right here.
“What?” I really didn’t get it.
“Get the chain outa the back of the truck and I’ll just have the colt pull us home.” He was very pleased with himself.
“Uh, that Really doesn’t sound like a good idea..” I just stared at him. Surely he wasn’t serious! No way!
Oh, yeah, he was serious. Leaving the colt to stare even more suspiciously at the end of his tether, he dragged a ten foot section of log chain off the back of the truck to around the front, where after some consideration in the matter, decided the front axle was probably the only thing that wouldn’t fall off when pulled, and hooked it there. He pulled the colt hand over hand to him, untied him from the bed and led him around front, where I held him while he pulled the chain under the pommel and up around the horn. No, the colt had no breast collar. He jerked the chain once or twice to make sure it would hold, and told me to get back in the truck to steer.
“I Really, REALLY don’t think this is a good idea, Hervie.” I had to make one more attempt at sanity, this was just sure to be a disaster.
“Get in the g……..d…… truck and steer, will you? I KNOW what I’m doing!”
Alrighty then, since you put it that way… I crawled in the driver’s seat, shifted it in neutral, and, gripping the steering wheel in white knuckled fear, waited for the fun to begin. I didn’t have to wait long.
When the colt felt the resistance from the truck, he stopped, as any sensible creature would, so Hervie encouraged him on with several sharp slaps from the end of the lead. The colt hit the end of the slack and stopped again, unsure what was holding him back or how, but trying to think things out. Hervie pulled on his head, then yelled and cracked him with the lead again, this time across the hocks. The colt kicked with both hind feet, took a half step back, then lunged forward. The truck jerked after him for a few feet, then another heroic lunge from a now terrified horse convinced this monster behind him was a clear and certain danger, popped the chain right off the axle.
The sudden release of the tension threw the colt almost to his knees, but he recovered the second that chain slapped the pavement behind him and made a sound like a bull whip cracking. Sparks flew off the contact, and the colt leaped sideways to avoid who ever was trying to hit him with it. That hurled the chain in an arc in response, narrowly missing Hervie’s legs as he desperately tried to get to the colt. Seeing the chain fly sideways convinced the colt he’d better keep it in sight, so he began to whirl in a circle to do so.
Hervie dropped flat to the ground after the first pass of the chain, rolling away from the horse and out of path of the whirling scythe. He popped up again and tried to time the swoops to rush in and grab the colt’s halter, but his half rushes only convinced the colt he was in as much danger from the red faced, swearing man, as he was from this terrible whistling metal snake. It was now chest high, level with the windshield, and whirling like a helicopter blade, hooompwhooompwhoomp, the poor colt whirling like a dervish. I dove for the passenger door, beat on the handle, thought about bailing out the window, thought better of it, and crawled down under the dash, waiting for that log chain to break free and take off the cab along with my head. I had to peek up again, unable to keep from watching this train wreck, and knew something had to give. The colt spun and staggered, unable to stop and to frightened to anyway, and as he whirled, he drifted off the pavement into the grass and caught the chain on a telephone pole. The moaning chain slapped around the pole, chewing hunks of wood off of it, and literally jerked the colt off his feet. The poor colt just lay there, wheezing and covered with foam, legs stretched straight out like a saw horse over turned, his eyes bugged out and white rimmed with terror. We ran over to him, and while I cradled and petted his head, Hervie unhooked the chain from the saddle.
It was several minutes before he attempted to regain his feet, and he staggered drunkenly for quite a few more, but the fight was gone from him. It was all he could do to stand there, his head down and trembling all over, sweat running off of him like water down a hill. Hervie gathered the reins loosely and climbed on board without a hitch, he let the colt stand there for a while longer, then clucked and nudged him with his heels. The colt stepped off clumsily, but very willingly, and got more confident as he walked along, eyeing the monster that caused the panic in the first place with a healthy fear, but no hesitation.
“See, I told you I knew what I was doing!” crowed my maniac spouse, as he started back to BD’s. “He rides off good now, huh?”
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