by Slim Randles
It was a bright morning, and we had finished off the coffee and conversation at the Mule Barn truck stop, and we couldn’t think of anything much to do because we were still full from breakfast and it was too early for lunch, and the political problems and Hollywood gossip tanks had been thoroughly topped off. So we went over to Doc’s house to look at his mare in the back yard. She had, he said, a quarter crack in a front hoof.
So there we were, in a half circle around the little mare, staring at that slight crack as though focusing would bring a welded solution to the problem, but we all knew we just needed to drink Doc’s coffee and change the scene.
“I see you have a block of salt,” Bert said.
Doc nodded. Bert said, “Speaking of salt …”
We really hadn’t been, but smooth transitions aren’t always easy.
“…. puts me in mind of the time I stopped in that little store,” Bert said. “Few years back now, I guess. Well, it was about the last time Milly had pups, because I think I’d left her home to have them. Of course, she waited until I got home ….”
Doc and Steve stared at him encouragingly. “And?”
“Oh … well, there’s this little store up north … out in the middle of about flat nothing … and it was hot and I was thinking of a nice cold cocola right about then, so I stopped.”
Bert looked around. “Dang store was about full of salt.”
“Salt?”
“Everywhere. This guy had ice cream salt. Bags of it. Salt blocks for horses, sheep, cows, rabbits and even danged guinea pigs. He had regular salt. He had huge bags of bulk salt for putting on the ice.
“So I went to pay for my drink and I says to the guy, ‘You must sell a lot of salt.’ And he says to me, ‘No, but that salesman who calls on me sure does.’”
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