Horses in Love, continued
...
About a dozen horses later, the Shire mare
shambled in. The iron gate clanged. A wrangler chased her around
the ring with a whip.
The mare's owner hoisted himself up on
the pipe fence of the sale ring. He turned to the crowd and told
us he'd gotten tired of using her for farm chores. Was that a
smirk on his face? I felt my blood rush, a tingling in the arms,
that "I want to beat the crap out of someone" feeling.
Could this man be getting sadistic pleasure from his mare's plight?
Dennis would bid higher
when I was in the game. He didn't like competitors for brumbies.
Sometimes I'd let him have one after he'd bid it way too high.
I'd do it to try to teach him a lesson. Sometimes he'd drop out
and leave me stuck. More fun than Las Vegas.
I will never forget that sweet-tempered
creature. As her owner climbed the rail, she came over to him,
looking at him with what seemed like trust. Perhaps she was confident,
now that he was by her side, that this was just another farm
chore.
I chose not to bid. Bill's Straightaway
got her.
Then the largest of the striped mustangs
dashed into the ring. The gate slammed behind her. A shrill whinny
echoed from the iron box behind the gate. A pale head popped
into view over that iron barrier. The mare dashed about frantically,
trying to rescue her offspring. She lashed out at a wrangler
with her hind hooves. He ducked just in time -- reflexes honed
by cowboying a thousand brumbies.
"Sold DC-2, 23 dollar," cried
the auctioneer. This meant $23 per hundred pounds, or 23 cents
per pound. When the auctioneer was certain a horse would go for
meat he auctioned it by the hundredweight, instead of by the
head, as he had done with the sorrel. The low price meant that
mare was too small to make it in the gormet meat market. Dog
meat.
The next one into the ring must have been
her filly. I recognized the weepy eyes. She dashed about, sliding
on the sand flooring. She must have been seeking the dam that,
if she was lucky, she might never again nuzzle.
I stepped up to the south end of the auction
ring so I could see when and if Dennis Chavez -- Mr. "DC-2"
-- would drop out of the bidding. Dennis always stood at the
north end of the ring, a small, dapper, handsome man who always
wore a white hat. One booted foot rested on the lower bar of
the sale ring. Next to him leaned a tall, white haired man who
always looked put upon: Bill Owen -- Mr. "Bill's Straightaway."
The two killer buyers had a deal running.
Bill specialized in big, healthy horses, the ones that make it
to the diner plate. He also looked for horses with a good buck
in them to provide to rodeos. Dennis bought up the brumbies,
the wounded, the sick.
The auctioneer had seen our action dozens
of times. Dennis always could tell when I was bidding. I'd finally
decided it did no good to hide up at the back of the auditorium
or behind one of the posts that supported the ceiling.
Dennis would bid higher when I was in the
game. He didn't like competitors for brumbies. Sometimes I'd
let him have one after he'd bid it way too high. I'd do it to
try to teach him a lesson. Sometimes he'd drop out and leave
me stuck. More fun than Las Vegas. Only Charlie really won in
our bidding wars.
"Sold Carol, 30 dollar," concluded
the auctioneer. She was mine. This wasn't too much above the
going price.
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