Blister Jones Part 13

"'There's a dispersal sale to-morrow at the Goodloe farm,' says Peewee.

''N' I hear there's some real nice stuff going under the hammer.

General Goodloe croaked this spring. They cleaned him in a cotton deal last year 'n' now their goin' to sell the whole works--studs, brood mares, colts--everything; plows, too--you want a plow? All you need is a plow 'n' a mule to put you where you belong.'

"'Where's this farm at?' I says.

"'Over in Franklin County,' says Peewee. 'I'm goin' over--want to go 'long?'

"'You're on,' I says. 'I'm not particular who travels with me any more.'

"We gets off the train next mawnin' at a little burg called Goodloe, 'n' there's three or four n.i.g.g.e.rs with three or four ratty-lookin' ole rigs to drive hossmen out to the sale. It's a fierce drive, 'n' the springs is busted on our rig. I thinks we'll never get there, 'n' I begins to cuss Peewee fur bringin' me.

"'What you got to kick at?' says Peewee. 'Ain't you gettin' a free ride? Cheer up--think of all the nice plows you're goin' to see.'

"'You take them plows to h.e.l.l 'n' make furrows in the cinders with 'em,' I says, wonderin' if I can get a train back to Loueyville anyways soon.

"But when we gets to the farm I'm glad I come. Man, that was some farm! Miles of level blue-gra.s.s pasture, with white fences cuttin' it up into squares, barns 'n' paddocks 'n' sheds, all painted white, just scattered around by the dozen. There's a track to work hosses on, too, but it's pretty much growed up with weeds. The main house is back in some big trees. It's brick 'n' has two porches, one on top of the other, all the way around it.

"The sale is just startin' when we get there. The auctioneer is in the judge's stand at the track 'n' the hosses is showed in the stretch.

"The first thing to sell is brood mares, 'n' they're as good a lot as I ever looks over. I loses Peewee in the crowd, 'n' climbs on to a shed roof to see better.

"Pretty soon here comes a real ole n.i.g.g.e.r leadin' a mare that looks to be about as old as the n.i.g.g.e.r. At that she showed cla.s.s. Her head's still fine, 'n' her legs ain't got so much as a pimple on 'em.

"'Number eleven in your catalogues, gentlemen!' says the auctioneer.

'Mary Goodloe by Victory, first dam Dainty Maid by--what's the use of tellin' you _her_ breedin', you _all_ know _her_! Gentlemen,' he says, 'how many of you can say you ever owned a Kentucky Derby winner? Well, here's your chance to own one! This mare won the derby in--er--

"'Eighty-three, suh--I saw her do it,' says a man with a white mustache.

"'Eighty-three, thank you, Colonel. You have a fine memory,' says the auctioneer. 'I saw her do it, too. Now, gentlemen,' he says, 'what am I offered for this grand old mare? She's the dam of six winners--three of 'em stake hosses. Kindly start the bidding.'

"'Twenty dollahs!' says the ole n.i.g.g.e.r who has hold of the mare.

"'Fifty!' says some one else.

"'Hole on dah,' sings out the ole n.i.g.g.e.r. 'I'se just 'bliged to tell you folks I'se pu'chasin' dis hyar mare fo' Miss Sally Goodloe!'

"The auctioneer looks at the guy who bids fifty.

"'I withdraw that bid,' says the guy.

"'Sold to you for twenty dollars, Uncle Jake,' says the auctioneer.

'Bring on number twelve!'

"'Hyah's yo' twenty dollahs,' says the ole n.i.g.g.e.r, fis.h.i.+n' out a roll of raggedy bills and pa.s.sin' 'em up to the stand.

"'Thank you, Uncle Jake. Come to the clerk for your bill of sale this evenin',' says the auctioneer.

"I watches the sale a while longer, 'n' then mooches into the big barn where the yearlin's 'n' two-year-olds is waitin' to be sold. They're a nice lot of colts, but I ain't interested in this young stuff--colts is too much of a gamble fur me. Only about one in fifty'll make good.

Somebody else can spend their money on 'em at that kind of odds.

"I goes out of the colt barn 'n' begins to ramble around, lampin'

things in general. I comes to a shed full of plows, 'n' I has to laugh when I sees 'em. I'm standin' there with a grin on my face when a n.i.g.g.e.r comes 'round the shed 'n' sees me lookin' at them plows.

"'Fine plows, sah, an' vehy cheap,' he says.

"'Do I look like I needs a plow?' I says to him.

"'No, sah,' says the n.i.g.g.e.r, lookin' me over. 'I cyant rightly say you favohs plowin', but howk.u.m you ain' tendin' de sale?'

"'I don't see nothin' over there that suits me,' I says.

"The n.i.g.g.e.r is sore in a minute.

"'You is suttanly hahd to please, white man,' he says. 'Ain' no finah colts in Kaintucky dan dem.'

"'That may be so, but how about Tennessee?' I says, just to get him goin'.

"'Tennessee! Tennessee!' he says. 'What you talkin' 'bout? Why, _we_ does de fahm wuck wid likelier colts dan _dey_ sends to de races.'

"'I've seed some nifty babies down there,' I says.

"'Look-a-hyar, man!' he says, 'you want to see a colt what am a colt?'

"'How far?' I says.

"'No ways at all, jus' over yondah,' says the n.i.g.g.e.r.

"'Lead me to it,' I say to him, 'n' he takes me over to a long lane with paddocks down each side of it. All the paddocks is empty but two.

In the first one is the ole mare, Mary Goodloe; 'n' next to her is a slas.h.i.+n' big chestnut colt.

"'Cast yo' eyes on dat one!' says the n.i.g.g.e.r.

"I don't say nothin' fur five minutes. I just looks at that colt. I never sees one like him before, nor since. There's some dead leaves blowin' around the paddock 'n' he's jumpin' on 'em with his front feet like a setter pup playin'. Two jumps 'n' he's clear across the paddock! His shoulders 'n' quarters 'n' legs is made to order. His head 'n' throat-latch is clean as a razor, 'n' he's the proudest thing that ever stood on four legs. He looks to be comin' three, but he's muscled like a five-year-old.

"'How 'bout him, boss?' says the n.i.g.g.e.r after a while.

"'Well,' I says, 'they broke the mold when they made that one!'

"'Dar's de mold,' he says, pointin' to the ole mare in the next paddock. 'She's his mammy. Dat's Mahey Goodloe, named fo' ole Miss Goodloe what's dade. Dat mare win de derby. Dis hyar colt's by impo'ted Calabash.'

"'When does this colt sell?' I asks him.

"'He ain' fo' sale,' says the n.i.g.g.e.r. 'De estate doan own him. De General done gib him to Miss Sally when de colt's bohn.'

"'Where's she at now?' I says to the n.i.g.g.e.r. I had to own that colt if my roll could reach him--I knowed that 'fore I'd looked at him a minute.

"'Up to de house, mos' likely,' says the n.i.g.g.e.r. 'You'd better save yo' shoe leather, boss. She ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what happens.'