Free Some More Horse Tradin' by Ben K. Green Page A

woven, quarter-inch rope. He said, “This will be ideal.”
    â€œHow much of it will we need?”
    â€œHow many mares are there?”
    I told him twenty-eight, and he said, “Ten feet—two hundred and eighty feet—perhaps three hundred feet.”
    The old man was standing behind the counter watching and listening to us, but he hadn’t made any comment. I said to him, “We need three hundred feet of this quarter-inch rope.”
    All old counters in those days had some tacks hammered in the counter to mark off three-feet, six-feet, and ten-feet measures of rope. The storekeeper came around to the front side of the counter and went to measuring off the rope. He got to three hundred feet and, as the custom was, he jerked three or four more feet to be sure you were getting good measure.
    I asked, “How much money?”
    â€œThree cents a foot,
señor.
”
    So I paid him nine dollars out of my pocket, and by this time my friend had the coil of rope over his arm and was started out the back door. As we approached the shed where we were camping, he asked, “Who else knows that you have purchased the Shield mares?”
    â€œNobody else. Nobody has asked, and there’s been nobody around to tell, anyhow.”
    He said, “Be sure that you speak no more of this transaction.” And he sat down and went to cutting the rope into ten-foot lengths.
    I said, “That’s awful small rope to hold a horse.”
    â€œHave no fear, my friend.” And after he had the rope all cut, he began to plat beautiful little square knots in the ends of the rope—one knot in each end of each ten-foot length.
    I said, “This is going to take lots of time. Why don’t you just tie these knots in here?”
    â€œWe have the time. How else might I spend the afternoon?”
    It was a small rebuke, for which I said, “I’m sorry.”
    â€œIt is nothing. You may watch me.” And I watched him. With those long, slender, effective fingers, he platted square knots into that quarter-inch rope about as fast as I could have tied them using a common knot. “Common knots,” he said, “will come undone and permit the rope to ravel. A square knot platted will stay secure and will be more to our purpose. It affords an easy grasp.”
    I just grinned and said, “I’m glad you know what you’re doing. I don’t.”
    He made no reply, but by now it was middle-afternoon, and I thought if the café was open that I would get him some coffee. I said, “I think I’ll mosey around a bit.”
    â€œYes. You have some walking to do in order that you may rest tonight.” This was the first suggestion of humor that I had ever heard in his speech.
    I walked up to the café and had a cold drink that wasn’t very cold. It was iced sparingly because ice came once a week on the train. I took some coffee back to my friend in a fruit jar, and he sipped on it and finished the rope a little before dark.
    Next morning we had a quick breakfast, saddled our horses, and set out in a nice, flat walk. We didn’t hurry our horses, and we got there about the right time of day. We rode up to the corrals and, sure enough, the mares were in the corrals. Nobody was around. He stopped and surveyed the situation and told me to ride on up to heaquarters and take my time, but it would be best if I could transact my business and not let anybody come back to the corrals with me. He said that of course they wouldn’t want to—other than they might enjoy seeing the mares break and go back into the wilds of the pasture. But outside of that, they’d have no cause to want to watch me try to move the horses.
    I rode up to the headquarters, and there was no sign of life anywhere until the cook stepped out on the porch and spoke to me. He said that Señor Collin and all the cowboys were at another part of the ranch, but that he had been