TRADE-INS

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

y little six-foot power take-off combine was eleven years old and had served me well. It had threshed and picked up considerably more than 4000 acres here, there and everywhere. It had been quite an event the day it was delivered, all rubber belts new and shiny red. The small red combine and the little red tractor were just made for each other as indeed they were. In the field they threw a brilliant red splash against a gold and yellowish background of wheat. In all those years they had teamed up together through good times and bad, harvesting crops all the way from poor to bumper. Now I had more land and was looking for something bigger. A new combine was out of the question at the time and I would have to be content with the next best.

As Micawber said, "Something will turn up," and it did. Jake, a friend of ours farming 35 miles S.W. was willing to take my small combine. He already had one a little bigger. But who was going to tell him he didn't need another one? He came to see me one day to look it over and I gave him its past history right up to the present time (then). He was satisfied at the price and I eventually came down to his figure and considering what I gave for it new I had no complaints. He had a machine in mind, a twelve foot model, and he thought it would be exactly what I wanted. He knew its pedigree, performance and everything about it and he was sure I could get it reasonably enough.

If I would condescend to look at something green for a change instead of red this might be the end of my search. Color wouldn't be any bar. But where was this handsome proposition and how deep was I expected to dig to acquire it? Don't have to worry about that now; time enough for that.

It was only two miles from his own place and all I had to do was drive over and see it. A man can't doubt a friend's word, or shouldn't, so I made the trip; the deal was clinched with the agent and Jake confirmed his willingness to take mine. Four bottles were popped and four glasses clinked between the four of us, the agent, the previous owner, Jake and myself. The agent stood treats and we shook hands all round and then round again to make sure there was no slip up. We drank to overflowing wheat bins and may our combines never suffer from that crippling ailment, gall stones but instead to continuing prosperity. The World was as sweet as the roses and the colour of our noses. We were all gentlemen and honest, weren't we (pardon my assumption) but at that precise moment I wasn't quite sure.

Jake and myself set the swop date. On a certain morning good and early we would leave home at the same time (we set our chronometers to the split second) he hauling the twelve-foot machine and I my six-footer: Wherever we met on the way there would we switch tractors and depart and retrace our respective ways but not before we had mulled over to our entire satisfaction all the latest news and gossip. The premises were set out and agreed to and this looked like an ironclad and foolproof arrangement but Kilroy slipped in and blued the works. The first set date was canceled due to the wet weather but the next one stood.

The roads were wet in the low places when I started out but once gaining the highway four and a half miles North I really made time. It was a bright and clear day and I kept up a steady eleven or twelve miles an hour. I climbed the Butte hill and passed those familiar places where I wrestled, but not too successfully, with the art of stooking thirty-three years before and those places where I heaved wheat bundles on the end of a three-tine fork. I passed the place where (real green I was) I pitched sheaves belonging to another farmer on the next quarter only a few feet away, by mistake of course. I only had a few on the rack and was shown my error in time. Continuing West for a total of about fifteen miles I hit a steady gait and then turned South. This was wilder looking land and bigger hills showed up. Now I began to study the country, a few more hills and farther South more pasture road in the far distance for any signs of another and larger combine outfit. Nothing at all showed up and except for a truck or a car once in a great while I had it all my own way. Stopping at a crossroads a long way South I made inquiries about Jake's place. It was due West so I took it easy and had my lunch.

I kept wondering about Jake and what could have happened to him. He had either been late starting (which I ruled out) or he had had some trouble. There were lots of sloughs around. A half-ton truck came towards me from the West and I beckoned for him to slow up. Had he seen anyone on the road with a combine? Why, sure he had and he knew Jake; he was stuck all right, just coming on to a new grade between two sloughs.

"O.K. and thanks." But this was far from O.K. though now I knew something definite. The road West was wet in the low places but I kept right on. I would see our friend soon now. Then, at last, topping a hill everything was explained at a glance. The country round could be seen for miles and a grain elevator showed up a few miles to the Northwest. This was real hilly country and the roads wound up and round or down this way or that way but for about a mile ahead of me the road was dead straight. It leveled off about two hundred yards away past the bottom of the hill and beyond that was the grade.

At its West end I could see a yellow tractor and a green combine. The tractor was level headed but the combine sure looked tipsy, a derelict that was just about ready to submerge. It was shipping water to starboard and it and the road were in imminent danger of parting company. Things were quite animated down there and it looked like a puppet show from this distance.

I turned off into the field, unhooked the combine and continued the rest of the way. There were two deep ruts down the centre of the grade, someone had been through it, running light but the shoulders were soft. Two tractors were hooked on to the green one but weren't getting anywhere very fast except to dig themselves down. A truck was parked on the other side of the combine. The usual miscellaneous items were lying around, chains, bars, long and short, clevises, spades, boards and a fork or two.

Jake ceased his labors when he saw me coming and walked over, leaning against the mudguard. He seemed to be waiting or me to say something, maybe bawl him out.

"Hey, you old stick in the mud," I said at last which was appropriate. "What happened to your arithmetic or is this what you call halfway?"

"Man, if you and that ruddy little wornout buggy had got a move on I wouldn't have been stuck here. What kept you so long? Couldn't leave the old bed, I bet."

"I like that and here I've been going for ages steady and you just sitting in a slough waiting for me to show up. I'll bet you've been here for hours."

"Oh, two or three," he said quite happy. "Got any lunch left? It's just near time."

"No, Sir, I sure haven't." He just happened to see my empty lunch box. "I had it at the highway just a way back. Think I'd give a crumb to a guy who doesn't know any better than to run into a lake in broad daylight? Man, where's your head and how the dickens did you do it?"

Actually Jake was a worse kidder than I was.

"I made good time," he explained, "till I came to this grade. I could see a trail through it so I thought it was O.K. but as soon as I got on to it I knew different. It was soft on the outside and that two or three tons of junk you bought developed crazy ideas. Just take a look at it and that'll show you what I mean. It seems there was a trail round it if I'd noticed it sooner."

"Yes, 'if'," I said, "if a sign post had been put up, if you'd used the old bean!" "Go ahead, Jake, it's your turn.

He executed a sparring feint and I guess we were even. So here we were and this would be our temporary address for an hour or two.

The truck made a trip back home and now the fellows had all they needed, three rarin'-to-go tractors, one perfectly good telephone pole, chains (one long, one longer), bars (one round and slightly bent, one young and upright), the odd sightseer (was I odd?) and lots of free advice.

The pole was shoved and rammed under the table with the help of the bars far enough to give the table a chance to slide on it and take some weight off the wheel. Two tractors were hooked on and gained a foot. Trying it at different angles, gaining a little each time, the two tractors, one loud popping then purring, the other emitting steadier bangs, accompanied by hand signals from the rear, something happened.

At long last the dirty water sloshed off the table and the big wheel rose triumphant out of the mire. It cut a deep rut hanging with mud and dripping a vee trail of water, the tie rod scraping and smoothing a sloping patch of ground before it cleared. It was level now and muddied right up to its belly. Anyway, it looked as if it belonged to somebody.

It must have been a couple of hours since I arrived but now we were ready to go and the deep ruts, scrapings and holes in the ground would be the only evidence of just another prairie farm-to-farm incident.

It was somewhere around 3 p.m. by now and I had about forty miles to go and the sooner I started back the better. Jake pulled the combine to the top of the hill and it was "each to his own." With the usual "So long," we prepared to leave and then adding, "Don't get lost or stuck in a slough or something," we strengthened that camaraderie between us just that much more.

I followed the tail end of my erstwhile little "buggy" as it retreated in the distance below me. Now on level ground again I could see Jake standing in betwixt two toys, one chasing the other. With no effort he negotiated the grade and purred Westward.

I felt lost for a few minutes and I didn't pattern my way of living exactly to dollars and cents, believe it or not. The dollar sign isn't the greatest goal although I agree it's important.

However, this other green monster soon took my mind off other things with its grain tank sitting away up in the air topped by the auger, the wide table like a spar floating away off to the side, the motor, with its bird cage, angle iron braces, the master's bridge where he and his vertical wheel of extended spokes, cased in wood is lord of all he surveys and a green lattice-work of steel rooted in the body to support its various members.

I was amazed to find a place to hook on to in this mass of geometrical design. I looked down on my other one, now I have to look up. I hope my regard for it also follows a rising slant.

I started off easy for the first mile or two and in due time reached the highway. Making a sharp left turn North the table guards traced out concentric circles, the inside ones tiptoeing while the outer ones raced breathless to catch up. Straightening up the tractor the outer end marked time. "Pardon my hurry," so to speak, "I'll wait." The outer wheel did likewise and the inside one skipped up and toed the line.

Gunning the tractor I pulled over to my own side and the table end cast a shadow over the ditch. I stopped at one place going North, inquiring about a shorter route back but the longest way round was the shortest way home I found. In time the night darkened and I pulled the light switch. Instantly I was confined by three light beams. Beyond, everything retreated into dark shadow. The straight and gravelly road showed up ahead, its little humps and depressions magnified by the shadowing effect behind them. The ditches and rustling weeds showed up in relief. Behind me the light showed the slight up and down movement of the combine reel and its bar-like shadows, the yellowish green face of the grain tank, its rim and the auger in darkness and the big wheel bouncing along, its parallel grooves all one groove or all smooth, whichever way you looked at it, the other wheel obscured in moving shadows.

A few more miles North and then a long curving swing to the East round a big slough. The road was quiet this night and only one car either way, I remember. In time I rounded the Butte hill and there to the Southeast at lower level, the lights of the village punctured the prairie night. Bowling along and down I crossed the two tracks the table shivering down and up each time and then on a quick right turn, the rear hood described a dizzy slightly elongated quarter circle, the table enjoying the "pause that refreshes." Approaching the village and meeting a car, I slowed up, pulling over a little too far for my own good. The table swung out over the deep ditch, the combine wheel slid off the shoulder and for the second time within a few hours the outfit was plain stuck. The fellow driving the car kept right on going; probably didn't know there was anything amiss.

Backing up a little and heading for the other side of the road I pulled the throttle wide open, made three feet or so then the heavy side pull of the wheel against the shoulder had me like a snake by the tail. The front end of the tractor swung round short. I backed up and tried it three times and then - "to 'ell with it" was my sentiments.

I walked a couple of a hundred yards or so and Mr. H. with his all enclosed all-weather "Minnie" offered to pull me out for which I was very grateful. It was truly a novelty to ride in this mechanical work horse refined to parlor comforts after my likewise "all-weather" outfit-open to all weather!

One little snort from "Minnie" on the end of a chain and with my cooperation, I was again roadworthy. I parked on his place too till morning for which he had my thanks. Now I hunted up my old friend C. and tapped on the back door of his familiar and spic and span little place. A sound of a step, the turn of a knob, the door opened and then the screen:

"Come in, come in. What you doing this time a' night?"

"Just running round the country and getting stuck."

I told him the rest of the tale and how were the chances for me to stay over night.

"Chances O.K. and we'll have a cuppa tea but why didn't you pull off to the side by the cemetery? It would have been real handy for morning."

I would have done just that if I had thought of it, and I should have put up a sign maybe "The last resting place.

"Sure, sure, but you'll feel better in the morning."

We ended up by having more than a cup of tea. I hadn't had much at all since morning and we talked over a good meal and a smoke or two, finally turning in for the night. The next morning we considered the best way to go back with the outfit; return the way I came in or go out East the back way and the back way won.

After our cheerios I was again on the road and just before the highway I swiped a few willows with the end of the table. The trail was a little narrow and sticky and I just had enough traction to gain solid footing. I was on the highway at last and then a few more miles East and I turned South a mile, East again for one mile and just before I was about to make my last turn South I snapped M's telephone wires.

This outfit should have been used as a fire spotter's look-out. I could spit clean over the top of my dinky late model but not this ponderous watch tower. I hadn't noticed anything wrong till two vibrating bings did a magician's trick-made four wires out of two. This was a party line and mind it's fixed good and quick. This urgency was devastating. But I needn't have worried too much.

There was no momentous and animated discussion being carried on at the moment and the lines weren't hot, although when the wires parted company they sure snapped in anger. There was no sign of any female coming at me, irate and determined and waving a broom stick. The atmosphere remained calm, perfectly calm and sunny-shiny.

I backed up and joined the ends together with the help of R., who was there at the time. Having busted 'em I'll admit this was the ideal rig for fixing 'em again. I wouldn't recommend it for general use.

R's natural curiosity rose to the surface like the old yeast bubbles used to but don't any more. He became interested in this dicker and deal job. A hint of any new deal, a swap or a trade and "come now, boy, open up." This is the life and breath of the prairies so - "spill the beans."

"Where did you get it, how much and what year? You traded in your little one, how did you make out with that? This one looks to be in pretty fair shape, tyres too are real good shape. You won't get going for a while yet."

R. was quite deaf at times and while he was on the ground I carried on an intimate conversation with him from the watch tower. It was broadcast to anybody inside a quarter mile radius and he agreed I had done all right. Now I was just another neighbor but not a drawing card and that was the way I wanted it.

The next three miles of trail road was the roughest of any and two M.P.H. was the best I could do. At last I crossed the town road and only half a mile remained. Two thirds of the way down there was another low and wet place and I just had enough steam to make it. In a few minutes I turned left and followed round a windbreak of trees. Giving the Old Faithful full throttle I made a right turn and keeping well away from the trees endeavored to make the last twenty-five yards but the combine took a notion to visit China and the tractor started to dig. I unhooked and let it stew in its own ruts. I wouldn't need it for a week or more.

A long time afterwards, I was talking to Jake again at his own place.

"That guy," I said, "who owned the combine before I bought it sure was a haywire farmer all right. Man, you should have seen the telephone wire and hay wire hanging all over the place."

Jake gave me a long and steady look, about to deliver a verbal coup-de-grace and replied, entirely for his wife's benefit, I'm sure,

"Man, you should have seen the one I got!"