The March horse sale in Mandan,
right at the edge of the West,
parking lot full, (and lots more),
horse trailers, pickups, and cars.
"Don't park three deep in a row,"
the sale catalog warns all.
Step inside - the hallway's full.
Sans boots and big hat, you feel
out of place. Climb the stairway,
look down in that arena.
A mare for sale and her rider
circle to the auction chant
that's unintelligible
to ears not schooled to its pleas.
Buddy enters the sale ring,
bay gelding quarter pony,
ridden by a lad, "The kids
use Buddy in the pasture
moving cows and checking fences,
handles any job you give."
Twelve hands high and twelve years old,
he brings four and twenty-five.
Here comes Twobuck Cracker Jack,
AQHA dun gelding,
"Cracker is a big, stout made
gelding that's a true ranch horse.
He has a true one hand neck
rein, pivots, side passes and
backs." A pretty little thing
rides him in, slips the halter
from his head and loops a loose
rein under his neck. Sure 'nuf,
he still does just what she asks.
The gavel raps, it's final,
four thousand dollars he brings!
Princess and Peggy enter -
a matched team of three year old
blue roan mares "that drive single
and double and also ride."
And such showy harnesses
they wear, dozens of nickel
studs shine, leather's deep-dyed
black with polished balls on hames.
Bid them separate times two -
they sell fourteen-fifty each.
From a colony down south,
their pitchman wears a full beard
and a black hat. His young son
comes with, apple not far from
the tree, suspender askew.
Now they sell the harnesses
almost half the horses' price,
six-fifty for each times two.
A little taste of the West,
some shit on the shoes, sour arm-
pit smells of honest sweat, a
few hundred of these horses
sell, twice a year it happens
here: Hermanson-Kist Horse Sale.
