Soapweed
Well-known member
In my incapacitated condition, I've been writing a few stories of my dim lit dim wit past. This one is long and boring, but here it is. Names have not been changed. These are the real us.
FAMILY TRIP WITH A HORSE TRADER by Steve Moreland
The year was 1990, and the time of the trip was mid August. Only our oldest son Will was in school, so we probably did this trip right before school started. Participants of this escapade were my wife Carol and me, son Will (age eight), daughter Tiffany (age four), and our youngest son Brock, who was a long yearling. Our conveyance was a 1989 Ford F150 super cab short box pickup. With the five of us, and required car seats for the kids, it was plenty crowded. Our luggage rode in the back of the pickup, and if it started to rain, this all had to go up front also.
Our main destination was Branson, Missouri but anyone who ever traveled with me knows there will probably be no set itinerary. I recall driving through Kansas City. I had never worn seat belts in my life, but thought that I should buckle up for the fast drive through the big city. The seat belt made me feel uncomfortable and constricted. I grasped the steering wheel with white knuckles and loudly proclaimed, "Now everybody sit down and shut up. Don't say another word until we get through Kansas City." We made it somehow. Arriving in the Branson area, we checked out Silver Dollar City, and the two older kids enjoyed the fun rides at that amusement park. Carol and I took turns going on rides with Will and Tiffany, and watching Brock who was too small to qualify to go on the rides. It was a fun day. That evening we enjoyed supper and a country music show in Branson, but memory escapes me of which show it would have been.
The next day we drove south so we could say we had traveled in Arkansas. At the time, I was somewhat looking to buy a good saddle mule. We drove to Prairie Grove, Arkansas, to check out the Hawleywood Mule Farm, owned by Lloyd Hawley and his family. They had some very nice well broke mules, and with 20-20 hindsight, if I was going to buy a mule, one of theirs would have been ideal. Their mules were priced a little beyond what I wanted to pay, and their mules were mostly bay or brown in color. I was looking for a little chrome, as in white on the face or legs. Besides, transportation would be a problem, as we sure didn't have a horse trailer with us.
We drove on to the west and soon entered into Oklahoma. I was surprised at all the trees in the eastern part of this state, though most of is looked to be scrub oak. At least the trees didn't seem very tall. Upon entering Oklahoma City, we spent a few hours at the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center. It is a very interesting place to visit.
When we resumed our traveling, we headed north and got to Stillwater shortly before dark. I had the Mules and More Magazine along, and found an ad of colorful mules for sale. The owners of these "colorful mules" were an older couple by the name of Ray and Pearl Henderson. We drove out to their property on the very east side of Stillwater, and got to see these colorful mules just as the sun was going down. There were two mules that had been started. One was a big paint seven-year-old, and the other was a stocking-legged blaze-faced bay. They were just what I was looking for. Ray wanted $2000 for the paint and $1000 for the bay. I asked if he'd deliver them the 800 miles to Nebraska for that, and he declined. Even though lust was lingering in my soul, we drove away. We had supper and found a motel where we could spend the night.
The motel had newspapers available, so I picked up a copy. While thumbing through the want ads, I found an older 5' x 16' bumper hitch stock trailer for sale. Even though the hour was late, I called the number. The trailer was priced at $1200 and was only located about ten miles from our motel. I made arrangements to go look at the trailer, and kissed my wife and small children goodnight.
The trailer was not really top-of-the-line and carried a little Oklahoma rust, but the floor was good. The tires looked fairly decent. I asked the owners, "Would you take a thousand dollars for the trailer, if I can get the price down a bit on the mules?" They figured they could do that. Then I called the number for Henderson's colorful mules. Pearl sleepily answered and said she'd put Ray on the phone. It took Ray a while to get woke up and put his hearing aids into place. I said, "Ray, would you take $2750 for both mules, and load me out at daylight tomorrow morning?" He allowed as he would accept that offer, and we made the deal. Then I got a check out of my wallet to pay for the stock trailer. I could see a wave of doubt come over the faces of the sellers, and I suspected that they were leery of a possible bad check from two states and 800 miles away. I asked, "Would you feel better if you talked to my banker?" They admitted that they would. I used their telephone and called information for the number of Gene Belsky from Gordon, Nebraska. By this time, it was 11 p.m. in the Mountain Time Zone, but I made the call anyway. Gene sleepily answered his phone and I explained my dilemma. Then I let one of the sellers talk to Gene, and evidently his okay of my check allowed the deal to go through.
Well before daylight the following morning, I rousted out Carol and our kids. We arrived at the property of Henderson's colorful mules just as the sun was showing itself on the eastern horizon. We loaded the two colorful mules, wrote a check to Ray Henderson, shook hands, said our good-byes and headed north. Our little white half ton pickup had all it could do to pull the trailer with the mules. We passed into Kansas before the weigh station opened, and sallied forth. We didn't have any brand inspection or health papers, and I was sure hoping we didn't get caught. We'd have had to waited another day to do things the legal way, and I had a ranch back in the Sandhills that needed runnin'.
With the slow progress of our little pickup pulling a big trailer, we only made it as far as North Platte the first day. My good friend Don Licking has a nice ranch just north of town, and he was nice enough to let us keep the mules in his corral. Our family spent the night with my sister, Nancy Jean, who was working in North Platte at the time. The next day after arriving home, I figured the mules were as tired and unbroncky as they would ever be. I loaded some salt on a pickup, saddled both mules, and led them four or five miles through some pastures to get any goosiness out of them. Arriving back at the barn, I rode them each around a corral for quite a while before turning them loose on grass and water. Both mules were plenty green, and it was easy to tell that neither one had had very much riding.
Every chance I had was spent riding the big paint mule. He had withers better than most horses, and he was active as a cat. Twice he darned near bucked me off, and once he did. Will was riding his pony and I was riding the paint mule one day rounding up a small pasture. The paint mule came unglued and really went to bucking. I lost both stirrups and both reins and knew the next jump was going to be my undoing. I knew these facts, but the mule didn't. He didn't make that last jump, and I quickly got both feet back in the stirrups and both reins in my hand. Then I tried to boldly let him know that I'd had the deal won from the very get go.
That summer we had 250 pairs on pasture with John Wickman. When it was time to trail them home, I was astride my paint mule. Kenneth Sprague was working for us at the time, and it was just the two of us driving the 250 cows with their calves back to our ranch. The local railway line was in the process of discontinuing operation. As there hadn't been a train go by for at least a week, I thought seriously of driving our cattle down the tracks. This would eliminate any chance of our cattle getting mixed with neighbor's cattle if we went through an occupied pasture. At the last minute, after not seeing any neighboring cattle ahead, I decided to not go down the track. That was a fortunate call, because within about twenty minutes along came a slow-moving train. Even though it was moving slowly because the tracks hadn't been maintained in some time, that didn't stop the engineer from laying on his whistle. My old paint mule took the bit between his teeth and took off running, with me riding along and holding on for dear life. Kenneth Sprague was on his own with the cattle drive. Eventually I got the mule circled and slowed down, and we rejoined the drive.
The other mule didn't know much but he was more docile and people friendly. Carol rode him occasionally. We took both mules to the Sam McKelvie National Forest for their annual fall trail ride. It wasn't hard to have a conversation starter while riding along with the group.
One morning I drove out in a pickup to get in the horses. There didn't seem to be enough color in the herd, so I started counting noses. The big paint mule was the one missing. I started driving around the pasture looking for the missing mule. Right beside the windmill run-off pond, there laid one dead paint mule. There didn't seem to be any signs of struggle or pain like a twisted gut would have shown. I must admit, I had mixed emotions seeing that dead mule. My logical and frugal mindset was sorrowful due to the tremendous price that had been paid and was now lost. My emotional side breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't have to ride that mean old bugger ever again.
The first thought through my feeble mind was that never again would I find as colorful a mule as that one. Next thought—how did he die? Putting the two thoughts together, I decided to call Monte Fralick, a taxidermist from Martin, South Dakota to see if he would be interested in tanning the hide. Then with the hide off, it would be a good time to take the mule to Dr. Morgan Dahlman, a veterinarian from Martin, to get an autopsy. I took a tractor out to the mill pond and had Carol bring a pickup with a flatbed trailer. We loaded the mule and I hauled him to the taxidermist. Monte and I spent the better part of three hours skinning out the mule. Then the hide was shipped off to California to be tanned and processed. I chauffeured the dead mule on to the vet clinic. Dr. Dahlman's official report said a ruptured anus killed the critter. This may have happened during the skinning process.
I will never know for sure what killed the mule, but we do have a $360 tanned colorful mule hide hanging on our basement wall, complete with long ears and tail so there is no doubt about what previously inhabited this hide. Sometimes memories are quite expensive.
FAMILY TRIP WITH A HORSE TRADER by Steve Moreland
The year was 1990, and the time of the trip was mid August. Only our oldest son Will was in school, so we probably did this trip right before school started. Participants of this escapade were my wife Carol and me, son Will (age eight), daughter Tiffany (age four), and our youngest son Brock, who was a long yearling. Our conveyance was a 1989 Ford F150 super cab short box pickup. With the five of us, and required car seats for the kids, it was plenty crowded. Our luggage rode in the back of the pickup, and if it started to rain, this all had to go up front also.
Our main destination was Branson, Missouri but anyone who ever traveled with me knows there will probably be no set itinerary. I recall driving through Kansas City. I had never worn seat belts in my life, but thought that I should buckle up for the fast drive through the big city. The seat belt made me feel uncomfortable and constricted. I grasped the steering wheel with white knuckles and loudly proclaimed, "Now everybody sit down and shut up. Don't say another word until we get through Kansas City." We made it somehow. Arriving in the Branson area, we checked out Silver Dollar City, and the two older kids enjoyed the fun rides at that amusement park. Carol and I took turns going on rides with Will and Tiffany, and watching Brock who was too small to qualify to go on the rides. It was a fun day. That evening we enjoyed supper and a country music show in Branson, but memory escapes me of which show it would have been.
The next day we drove south so we could say we had traveled in Arkansas. At the time, I was somewhat looking to buy a good saddle mule. We drove to Prairie Grove, Arkansas, to check out the Hawleywood Mule Farm, owned by Lloyd Hawley and his family. They had some very nice well broke mules, and with 20-20 hindsight, if I was going to buy a mule, one of theirs would have been ideal. Their mules were priced a little beyond what I wanted to pay, and their mules were mostly bay or brown in color. I was looking for a little chrome, as in white on the face or legs. Besides, transportation would be a problem, as we sure didn't have a horse trailer with us.
We drove on to the west and soon entered into Oklahoma. I was surprised at all the trees in the eastern part of this state, though most of is looked to be scrub oak. At least the trees didn't seem very tall. Upon entering Oklahoma City, we spent a few hours at the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center. It is a very interesting place to visit.
When we resumed our traveling, we headed north and got to Stillwater shortly before dark. I had the Mules and More Magazine along, and found an ad of colorful mules for sale. The owners of these "colorful mules" were an older couple by the name of Ray and Pearl Henderson. We drove out to their property on the very east side of Stillwater, and got to see these colorful mules just as the sun was going down. There were two mules that had been started. One was a big paint seven-year-old, and the other was a stocking-legged blaze-faced bay. They were just what I was looking for. Ray wanted $2000 for the paint and $1000 for the bay. I asked if he'd deliver them the 800 miles to Nebraska for that, and he declined. Even though lust was lingering in my soul, we drove away. We had supper and found a motel where we could spend the night.
The motel had newspapers available, so I picked up a copy. While thumbing through the want ads, I found an older 5' x 16' bumper hitch stock trailer for sale. Even though the hour was late, I called the number. The trailer was priced at $1200 and was only located about ten miles from our motel. I made arrangements to go look at the trailer, and kissed my wife and small children goodnight.
The trailer was not really top-of-the-line and carried a little Oklahoma rust, but the floor was good. The tires looked fairly decent. I asked the owners, "Would you take a thousand dollars for the trailer, if I can get the price down a bit on the mules?" They figured they could do that. Then I called the number for Henderson's colorful mules. Pearl sleepily answered and said she'd put Ray on the phone. It took Ray a while to get woke up and put his hearing aids into place. I said, "Ray, would you take $2750 for both mules, and load me out at daylight tomorrow morning?" He allowed as he would accept that offer, and we made the deal. Then I got a check out of my wallet to pay for the stock trailer. I could see a wave of doubt come over the faces of the sellers, and I suspected that they were leery of a possible bad check from two states and 800 miles away. I asked, "Would you feel better if you talked to my banker?" They admitted that they would. I used their telephone and called information for the number of Gene Belsky from Gordon, Nebraska. By this time, it was 11 p.m. in the Mountain Time Zone, but I made the call anyway. Gene sleepily answered his phone and I explained my dilemma. Then I let one of the sellers talk to Gene, and evidently his okay of my check allowed the deal to go through.
Well before daylight the following morning, I rousted out Carol and our kids. We arrived at the property of Henderson's colorful mules just as the sun was showing itself on the eastern horizon. We loaded the two colorful mules, wrote a check to Ray Henderson, shook hands, said our good-byes and headed north. Our little white half ton pickup had all it could do to pull the trailer with the mules. We passed into Kansas before the weigh station opened, and sallied forth. We didn't have any brand inspection or health papers, and I was sure hoping we didn't get caught. We'd have had to waited another day to do things the legal way, and I had a ranch back in the Sandhills that needed runnin'.
With the slow progress of our little pickup pulling a big trailer, we only made it as far as North Platte the first day. My good friend Don Licking has a nice ranch just north of town, and he was nice enough to let us keep the mules in his corral. Our family spent the night with my sister, Nancy Jean, who was working in North Platte at the time. The next day after arriving home, I figured the mules were as tired and unbroncky as they would ever be. I loaded some salt on a pickup, saddled both mules, and led them four or five miles through some pastures to get any goosiness out of them. Arriving back at the barn, I rode them each around a corral for quite a while before turning them loose on grass and water. Both mules were plenty green, and it was easy to tell that neither one had had very much riding.
Every chance I had was spent riding the big paint mule. He had withers better than most horses, and he was active as a cat. Twice he darned near bucked me off, and once he did. Will was riding his pony and I was riding the paint mule one day rounding up a small pasture. The paint mule came unglued and really went to bucking. I lost both stirrups and both reins and knew the next jump was going to be my undoing. I knew these facts, but the mule didn't. He didn't make that last jump, and I quickly got both feet back in the stirrups and both reins in my hand. Then I tried to boldly let him know that I'd had the deal won from the very get go.
That summer we had 250 pairs on pasture with John Wickman. When it was time to trail them home, I was astride my paint mule. Kenneth Sprague was working for us at the time, and it was just the two of us driving the 250 cows with their calves back to our ranch. The local railway line was in the process of discontinuing operation. As there hadn't been a train go by for at least a week, I thought seriously of driving our cattle down the tracks. This would eliminate any chance of our cattle getting mixed with neighbor's cattle if we went through an occupied pasture. At the last minute, after not seeing any neighboring cattle ahead, I decided to not go down the track. That was a fortunate call, because within about twenty minutes along came a slow-moving train. Even though it was moving slowly because the tracks hadn't been maintained in some time, that didn't stop the engineer from laying on his whistle. My old paint mule took the bit between his teeth and took off running, with me riding along and holding on for dear life. Kenneth Sprague was on his own with the cattle drive. Eventually I got the mule circled and slowed down, and we rejoined the drive.
The other mule didn't know much but he was more docile and people friendly. Carol rode him occasionally. We took both mules to the Sam McKelvie National Forest for their annual fall trail ride. It wasn't hard to have a conversation starter while riding along with the group.
One morning I drove out in a pickup to get in the horses. There didn't seem to be enough color in the herd, so I started counting noses. The big paint mule was the one missing. I started driving around the pasture looking for the missing mule. Right beside the windmill run-off pond, there laid one dead paint mule. There didn't seem to be any signs of struggle or pain like a twisted gut would have shown. I must admit, I had mixed emotions seeing that dead mule. My logical and frugal mindset was sorrowful due to the tremendous price that had been paid and was now lost. My emotional side breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't have to ride that mean old bugger ever again.
The first thought through my feeble mind was that never again would I find as colorful a mule as that one. Next thought—how did he die? Putting the two thoughts together, I decided to call Monte Fralick, a taxidermist from Martin, South Dakota to see if he would be interested in tanning the hide. Then with the hide off, it would be a good time to take the mule to Dr. Morgan Dahlman, a veterinarian from Martin, to get an autopsy. I took a tractor out to the mill pond and had Carol bring a pickup with a flatbed trailer. We loaded the mule and I hauled him to the taxidermist. Monte and I spent the better part of three hours skinning out the mule. Then the hide was shipped off to California to be tanned and processed. I chauffeured the dead mule on to the vet clinic. Dr. Dahlman's official report said a ruptured anus killed the critter. This may have happened during the skinning process.
I will never know for sure what killed the mule, but we do have a $360 tanned colorful mule hide hanging on our basement wall, complete with long ears and tail so there is no doubt about what previously inhabited this hide. Sometimes memories are quite expensive.
