The Good Horse Trade

Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life

I’ve always had a liking for Thoroughbred and Thoroughbred type horses. Horses that could travel easy over a big distance were better for my purposes and Thoroughbreds fit that purpose. When I was a senior in high school I had bought a gelding at the winter sale at the stock show. I called him Pilot. He was a papered Thoroughbred, jet black, and was in race condition. I rode him through the deep snow that late winter and through calving and had ridden him through my summer yearling season as well. I’d put many miles on the horse, and as pretty and easy moving as he was, I wanted out from under him in the worst way.

      He was nuts. Just plain fried. He’d have periods of being okay and get my hopes up, then would try to assassinate me with some freak out he’d pull. Years later a friend who would know told me what had probably been given to the horse and that I was right in assuming he’d never be right again. However, at the time I had him, I didn’t know that, but I was sure tired of his attempts on my life. He’d have these psychotic episodes that might last anywhere from five minutes to a week. I just never knew from one stride to the next what was going to happen next. It really lent excitement to riding on cattle.

      Having had all the excitement I needed from him, I was planning to just run him through a weigh up sale that fall and get rid of him. I kind of needed the money out of him so I could replace him, but that wasn’t even my primary goal. Being shed of him sure was.

       It turns out that someone who I disliked as intensely as I could possibly dislike someone, had seen me riding the horse. This guy, whose name was Scott, was known for being terribly abusive to his horses, having even beaten some to death over the years in his alcoholic rages. He approached me at Labor Day and asked me about the pretty black horse he’d seen me riding out in a pasture he’d driven by while on the county road. My desire to exit the conversation paused when he mentioned the black horse as it could be none other than Pilot. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Pilot and Scott would be perfect for each other.

      Not that I’m an advocate for abusing an animal, mind you, but an animal abusing that guy was a different story altogether. I figured that the first time old Scott reached up and whacked Pilot upside the head with a hammer handle, it would jar loose some of those psychotic bugs in Pilot’s head and he would end old Scott, or make him wish he was ended. It seemed like a win/win situation. I could be rid of Pilot and the world in general could be rid of Scott.

       So, he asked me a few questions that I could honestly answer, like how long had I been riding him and all that stuff. I told him everything I’d done with the horse, leaving out the times I’d been nearly killed in the process of the jobs. He was sure interested. I told him I wasn’t done with my yearlings for a while and I sure hated to let go of a young horse like that while I still needed him. That made Scott want him worse, as I’d hoped it would.

       You see, I knew of a big, stout young gelding that Scott had on pasture at a neighbor’s place that had caught my eye. The neighbor was supposed to be riding the horse for Scott as Scott had gotten an arm broke early that summer (incidentally, it was that horse that had done it, though I didn’t know it at the time). So, I told Scott I’d rather trade horses than sell mine outright.

        He told me all about this gelding he had that he didn’t know I’d seen, and wondered if I’d be interested in trading for him. I scuffed my toe around in the dirt a bit and said I knew what I had in my Thoroughbred horse and didn’t want to have to start over with another horse very bad. Of course, he had no idea just how bad I wanted to trade no matter what he had. Heck, I’d have traded for a Holstein steer at that point. Maybe even a billy goat or a sack full of cats.

        We set a day he’d bring his horse over so I could look at him. I told him I’d need some boot since my horse had papers and his didn’t, plus mine was fit and shod and his was grass fat and barefoot. I figured the difference might be worth $300. He didn’t swallow his tongue, so I was hopeful.

       On the designated day, I had Pilot in the corral when he showed up. He unloaded his horse and I looked him over a bit, just seeing he had sound legs and suchlike. He outweighed my horse by about 150  pounds, so even if he was a ringer, I’d still pound him out for more than mine. His horse had a homely head and a runny nose, and his feet needed shod, which I pointed out pretty quickly. He didn’t disagree.

       We went to the corral to look at Pilot. I grabbed a halter and walked up to him, catching him easy enough. Scott walked around him several times, taking in the good legs, deep heart, big withers, pencil neck and gorgeous head, plus he was shod. He was as pretty as a picture, for sure, and in shape from me trying my best to ride him to death. I could see Scott really liked him.

         Why he wanted to know I can’t imagine, but he wondered if he could be ridden bareback. At that time, I was quick and catty and figured any horse could be ridden bareback, but no bets as to how long. So, instead of answering him, I turned, grabbed the mane at the withers, and swung on, smooth as silk. I figured I had a short time before Pilot processed this new info in his addled brain, so I hurried him out, trotted him, loped him, stopped him, turned him back against the fence each way, stopped him again, backed him up, and just as I felt him swelling up in preparation for one of his epic explosions, I slid off of him. Scott was absolutely smitten with the horse at that point!

      He handed me the $300 boot I’d asked for, and the deal was made. This was a fine deal in my mind, but I still had one more hurdle to cross. There were times when there was no force on earth that could load Pilot into a trailer, and on some days, unload him from the trailer. I was sure hoping beyond hope that this was a day he’d load.

      When we got to the trailer, and while Scott untied the horse I’d traded for, I took Pilot and walked to the back of his open topped, 16 foot trailer. With bold confidence, I led him right into the trailer and closed the divider, pulling my halter off as I did. I refrained from doing a little dance or wiping my brow at that moment, just acted like that’s how he loaded every day.

        I switched halters on the new horse and handed his back to Scott. He got in his pickup and left, smiling like he’d won a lottery. I’m sure my smile went from ear to ear.

        I’m no horse trader, never have been, but this was one great trade in my mind. I figured the next time I heard about Scott would be on the obituaries on the radio, and that he’d been killed by a horse, which would have been fine justice for the way he’d treated horses over the years. My moral compass may have been skewed a bit, but, if anyone ever deserved it, it was him, as far as I was concerned.

        As it turned out, though, I didn’t have to have him on my conscience. He stopped at the local watering hole on his way home, so it was dark by the time he pulled into his place. He back his trailer up to a corral gate and unloaded Pilot into a pen for the night, figuring he’d ride him the next day. The next morning he found that a gate going out into a big pasture had come open, and Pilot had gone for freedom.

         He didn’t have a horse on his place that could pen the speedy booger, so Pilot got fat and wild out there in that pasture. After three or four years, Scott finally hired a neighbor guy, who may have imbibed in the same dope as Pilot had been given, who was crazy enough and had a dirt bike fast enough, to gather him. It was a pretty wild gather by all accounts, and when he finally penned Pilot, Scott ran him right into his trailer and took him to the sale barn where he went through with the loose horses. As much as I’d wanted a horse to educate old Scott, I guess it was for the best as it turned out.

trade

Posted in: Featured, Ranch Life


About Jan Swan Wood

Jan was raised on a ranch in far western South Dakota. She grew up horseback working all descriptions of cattle, plus sheep and horses. After leaving home she pursued a post-graduate study of cowboying and dayworking in Nebraska, New Mexico, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota....

View all posts by Jan Swan Wood


Comments