In some trade he once got a gib bay horse with peculiarly heavy feet. He was about the finest looking horse anybody ever saw. He was sixteen and a half hands high, and as well made as they could be put up. But there was one mistake about him,—he evidently wasn’t intended to work, and if you got him to move after you put a collar on him, you would have to haul him.
It was a lucky thing for Ben Davenport that he got hold of the bay horse, as most all of the property that he accumulated afterward was directly or indirectly due to the big bay horse. Everybody that came into that part of the country owned him at least a day, and he put several gypsy camps out of business. Whenever a stranger came over the road, Uncle Ben had occasion to go out with the big bay; and unless the man knew the horse he couldn’t resist giving everything he had for him, and a little to boot. After he was traded off, Uncle always came to the family with a smile and said: “Well, I have done great business to-day. I’ve got rid of old Broadfoot.” All of our family would plead with him to stay rid of him. He’d promise never to get him back
