Ernie's an artist. He's a rawhide man. He
plaits California vaquero style headstalls, romals, reins, reatas and
other fancy stuff. When you ride with Ernie you always feel like yer in a
parade.
But like any artist who is self-unemployed, he has plenty of time to kill. He told me he was settin' in the sale barn one mornin' visitin' with the geezers and watchin' Noah's Ark run through the ring. They ran the assorted single lambs, odd hogs, box of baby chicks and day-old Holstein calves through and had moved on to the beef cows and calves.
Ernie
kept his eye on E.B., the local order buyer, to learn some tricks of
the trade. E.B. sorted through the lots of killer cows, gummer pairs and
shiny lookin' weaners. Ernie sat on his hands. E.B. noticed Ernie's
lack of participation. In came a shaggy lookin' something-or-other
cross. The digital scale read-out showed 205 counting the tags and mud
ball on his tail. A leepie, obviously, with a big belly and a muzzle
like a leaf rake. And to top it off he was swayback!
The
auctioneer got him up to twenty cents a pound. E.B. acknowledged the
bid but stated loud enough for the curious to hear, "I'm buying him for
Ernie!" After the sale Ernie paid for the calf but cornered E.B.,
"Thanks, E.B., but what did you see in that steer, or what didn't you
see that the rest of us missed!"
"Son,"
said E.B. "You bring him back through the sale this spring and see what
he brings. He'll make you money." Ernie had respect for E.B.'s opinion
and took "ol' Buddy" home.
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