Some More Horse Tradin' by Ben K. Green Page B

came in behind him. I said, “A horse with that much sense, I guess could take those drawbars down if he chose to.”
    The old gentleman gave a light, pleased sort of smile. It was the first time I had seen the expression change on his face at all. He said, “I see you do appreciate a good horse.”
    â€œYes, I do. He’s a much better horse than the one I am riding.”
    He answered, “You are probably mounted well enough for whatever distance you must travel.” A polite but curt kind of a statement, spoken in a clear, proper tone with each word clipped sharp to fit in place.
    I wondered where he came from and how come he was in the Southwest where everybody slurs and slangs the language; but I said, “Well, I guess I’d better make my camp somewhere around under one of these sheds.”
    He said, “Move over to the south side with me. On top of the bluff there is some breeze which will be pleasant during the evening.”
    I hesitated a minute. Cowboys don’t hear night called evening very often, and not from another horseman, anyway. I picked up my saddle and bedroll and followed him over to the shed that faced south. It looked out over the river—that was dry—across the bleak old desert into Old Mexico. Far in the distance the rugged Huachuca Mountains loomed up out of the blue of the desert twilight.
    I spread out my saddle blanket, took off my boots, and stretched out with my head on my saddle. He leaned back against a post, and we sat there mostly in silence. Finally I mentioned the drouth.
    He said, “Yes. The drouth is severe in my country, too.”
    I thought this would be my best opportunity, and I asked, “And where would that be?”
    â€œIn the heart of the Huachuca Mountains about five days’ ride into Mexico. Our land is very dry. Our herds have longsince gone. I came to this country to seek employment, for I must provide for my people.”
    We sat in silence again. The coolness of the desert began to rise up from below and the fresh night air was getting chilly. In spite of drouth, in spite of the heat of the day, the desert is always a place to sleep in comfort through the night. By now the noises of the night, even though they were few, had become noticeable. There was a nice steady cool breeze blowing. We could hear our horses cleaning up what hay and grain we had given them, and it was a very peaceful scene.
    This man I had met in such an odd sort of way—over a drink of water—was somewhat puzzling to me. As I lay on my pallet, I could study his profile in the moonlight—the way he leaned back against that post. His features were chiseled according to the pattern of aristocrats and monarchs. His eyes were large and dark and very expressive. His hair was snow white and lay heavily on his head in a slight wave over the top and curled up some at the back of his hat. His selection of words was proof that he had an unusual background, entirely different from that of most people in this part of the United States and Mexico. I was very anxious to know more about him; but he hadn’t inquired into my affairs, my background, or my purpose in being in the Rio Grande country. I didn’t feel that he had given me any reason to ask him any personal questions. I didn’t want to cause him any embarrassment or make him ill at ease over some question that he might not care to answer, so I thought I would bide my time. The night was young, and tomorrow was a new day.
    I murmured to my companion that I thought I would doze off and take a nap. He responded by saying, “Then I shall retire, also.” There was some more of that wording. He didn’t say, “I believe I’ll take a nap,” or “get unconscious,” or “wallow out a place,” or “snooze,” or any ofthose things that sleep is described with by men of the range.
    To say that a man “looked like he had spent his life in the