Read Online Some More Horse Tradin' by Ben K. Green - Free Book Online

saddle” didn’t describe him in the Southwest, because we all had. You could come nearer to describing an individual and setting him apart if you said he hadn’t spent his life in the saddle. For the most part, a man that spent his life in the saddle—with the age that this man had—was stiff and bowlegged and maybe walked with a limp. Many were stooped in the shoulders. Those that had other hard labor to do, such as building fence or menial chores that didn’t belong to horseback endeavor, would have injured hands and big knuckles and maybe an enlarged or stiffened wrist.
    A close study of this individual showed that, even though he was from Mexico, he was not a Mexican. Neither could it be said that he belonged to the Anglo-Saxon race. His appearance and speech were baffling to a wild rough cowboy that didn’t know a whole lot about the human race anyhow. This man showed no signs of ever having done any hard labor or menial chores. His hands were smooth, and the manner in which he used them was very impressive. It is true that he was bowlegged and a little stiff in the joints, but his back was very erect and there was a bit of movement in his shoulders that isn’t common to men that have done all sorts of hard work.
    By now I had run all this through my mind and was fast on my way to drifting off to sleep and getting some rest and being refreshed for another day. The days you spend—be they hard, long, hot, or dry—are bearable if you sleep at night. Cowboys learn this at an early age, and they usually keep the habit as long as they live.
    About daylight I rolled over, rose up, and wiped my eyes, and remembered how come I was there. I’d had a good night’s rest, and the world was beginning to come alive in a sleepy sort of way. I looked about me, and my companion of the night was standing up very straight, looking out across the desert into Mexico. He didn’t seem to know that I had wakedup, and I said, “Are you trying to see what they are doing at home?”
    He was a serious sort of individual, and he answered, “I can well imagine the duties being performed this hour by my people in the heart of the Huachuca Mountains.”
    I said, “It sounds as if you wish you were home.”
    â€œI have been away many months, and I should like to return. In fact, I only stopped here to rest my horse and to procure supplies. I shall leave in a day or two. I hope to be on my own lands within the week to come.”
    I put on my clothes, pulled my boots on, got up and stretched, and said, “Well, I guess I’d better see about my horse.”
    He said, “I have fed your horse and mine from the feed that you purchased yesterday afternoon.”
    â€œThank you. I appreciate it.”
    He said, “It is strange, but I must assume that I had the feeling toward feeding your horse that you had last evening toward watering my horse—not a personal thing between one man and another, but a feeling for the horses. It was not intended as a gesture to make you feel obligated, sir.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “thanks anyway. When do you suppose that place opens up where we ate last night? I’d like to have some breakfast.”
    â€œIt is Sunday morning. I doubt that he will open soon.”
    There was no water to drink, no place to wash our faces and hands, and I said, “Well, I’d think a man that’s in the café business ought to open up early any day.”
    â€œI hope that you are correct in your thinking.” His phraseology had no breaks or lax places. It was amazing to hear him talk, and in such light, curt, well-chosen and well-pronounced words.
    I walked over to the front part of the corral to my horse, ran my fingers through his mane, and scratched his back a little bit. I picked us a piece of mesquite wood about the size of a curry comb and rubbed it around over his back tobreak the dry hair from yesterday’s