Rural Heritage August/September 2025

The Mares — Part Two TALES FROM CARTER COUNTY

as we climbed the long hill. I kept a steady tension on the lines, still not so trusting as to give the mares their heads, but prepared for them to show any tricks which they might have up their sleeves. We gained the ridge top, and I called “Whoa” as we neared the red gate. I clambered down from the spring seat, keeping the lines in my hands rather than hanging them on the front of the cart as I stepped to the front of the mares and unhooked the gate chain. They both stood perfectly calm as I swung the gate back, neither of them needing my words of reassurance as I moved about my task. They never twitched a muscle as I made my way back around the cart and climbed into the driver’s seat. I gave a cluck and a “Come up, there,” they leaned into the collars, and on we went. We made a full circuit of the place, interrupted with a few “Gees” and “Haws,” “Whoas” and “Come back, heres” just to put them through their paces, so to speak. Nary a flaw could I find. We drove quite a bit and then made our descent of the hill and pulled up to the round pen gate. I tied the mares in place and unhooked the cart, pulled harness and gave each mare a rub down before turning them out. They each picked a likely spot and dropped slowly down to their knees, then flopped over to their sides with a grunt and proceeded to roll back and forth, stirring up the gray dust and coating their once shining coats. I'd always heard a horse is worth a hundred bucks for each time he'll roll all the way over, though it can also result in a twisted gut and a painful death in a horse rolling from colic. I laughed to myself as I counted the three times each that the mares flopped side to side.“That's about right!” I muttered with a grin. “A thousand dollars for a pair of mares that ain't worth six hunnert!” I left the mares to nibble at their hay and went on to the house, not thinking to stand around to watch them eat. I was still on cloud nine over their ease of handling. This would change soon enough.

Editor's Note: In the previous issue, Jerry had told us about a team of mares he had bought under suspicious circumstances. Here is the test of the story. by Jerry Hicks W ell, in spite of the mares’ lack of appetite, I was still pleased with them at this point. They looked good and they handled well. After a little rummaging around in the tack room, I came out with a pair of collars to fit them. Next, I threw a set of harness on them, and, after adjusting a strap here and letting out a piece there, we had everything adjusted to fit. They were starting to look like a team. Just to be on the safe side, I snapped a short chain between their britchens so that they'd have to keep their butts together while I ground drove them. A few trips around the round pen showed this was completely unnecessary. They handled like they had been in harness all their lives. They stepped out in perfect unison and hauled back together like one animal. There was nothing left but to put them to the forecart and take them around the place. They stepped over the tongue and lined up to the breast yoke like soldiers. I hooked up the breast yoke and made a few adjustments for the correct spacing, then stepped back to their rears to drop the trace chains. Both mares stood quiet as church mice as I brought the chains back to the singletrees, dropped three links each and hooked them in place. I was still counting my good fortune at how good these mares looked in harness. We drove up the steep hill behind the barn, the old mares walking along in perfect unison and their heads nodding together with each step. The jingle of the trace chains, the squeak of the harness, the steady clop clop on the dirt road coupled with the birds, bugs and wind in the bushes on either side of the road, made for an idyllic setting

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