Over the years, I’ve heard countless stories about my grandfather, Tom Allen, and how he was one of the best horse traders around. In ranch country, that is no small reputation. A good horse trader needed sharp eyes, steady hands, and the kind of instinct that could read both horses and men.

According to the stories, Grandpa had all three.

My mom loved telling me about the days when she would watch him break horses on the ranch. She always laughed when she described it.

“He would swear like a sailor,” she’d say, shaking her head, “but he talked to those horses in the softest voice, just like he was speaking to a baby.”

That was Grandpa—half thunder, half tenderness.

As kids, my brothers and I loved sitting with him and asking questions about ranch life. We wanted to hear about sheep camps, life on the mesa, and especially the horses he had bought, traded, and trained over the years. Grandpa never seemed to tire of our curiosity.

One piece of advice he repeated more than once stuck with me all these years. “Never buy a horse with four white socks,” he warned. “They’ll have trouble with their feet.”

Funny how some words stay with you forever. Even funnier is the fact that I didn’t follow that advice.

Years later, I owned a horse named Beau, a stubborn mix of Arabian and Quarter Horse. He was jet black with a white blaze down his face and four bright white socks.

Sorry, Grandpa. And yes… Grandpa had been right.

Beau was a bit of a tenderfoot, and I had to watch his hooves carefully. But I loved that horse anyway. He had spirit and speed, and sometimes a mind of his own, especially when water was involved. Crossing streams often turned into negotiations.

Many times, I wished Grandpa had been nearby so I could ask him what to do. Once, remembering my mother’s story, I even tried talking to Beau the way Grandpa had talked to his horses. I leaned forward in the saddle and whispered, “Whoa, you son of a bitch.”

For some reason, it didn’t work nearly as well for me as it had for Grandpa.

Still, Beau and I had our adventures. When I helped friends round up cattle, he showed his cow pony instincts. I remember one day when we had a calf cornered. Everything was going perfectly until that calf suddenly wheeled around.

So did Beau.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting flat in the dust while Beau trotted over, lowered his head, and softly nickered as he nudged me with his nose, as if apologizing for the sudden change of plans.

I’m certain Grandpa would have laughed at my city girl ways, before telling me, “Well, girl, you’d better get back on that horse.”

One of my clearest childhood memories of Grandpa involves his saddle. One day I saw it after it had been freshly cleaned and oiled. The leather shone like honey in the sunlight, and the rich smell filled the room. I couldn’t resist running my hands over the smooth seat and worn stirrups. Grandpa caught me.

“Don’t mess with my saddle,” he scolded, though there was a hint of a smile hiding just below the surface.

That saddle was one of his prized possessions, worn smooth by years in the saddle and countless miles across mesas and mountains. Grandpa had spent a lifetime on horseback.

He even served in World War I, when the army at one point asked him to break horses for the cavalry. According to family stories, he wrote home asking them to send his saddle so he could do the job right.

Imagine that—my grandpa breaking horses for the United States Army.

After about six months he returned home with a broken ankle and a disability pension from the military. To this day I still think that is one of the most impressive things about him.

But Grandpa had loved horses long before the Army ever came calling. Family members said he could spot a good horse from a mile away. Besides raising sheep on the ranch, he traded horses for a living. And from all accounts, he nearly always came out ahead in those trades.

After Grandpa passed away, his nephew Paul Allen summed up Grandpa’s reputation in one simple sentence.

“Well,” he said quietly, “the last of the great horse traders is gone.”

I have missed my grandpa all my life.

There’s an old cowboy saying that goes, “Every horse deserves, at least once in its life, to be loved by a little girl.”

I believe that.

But I also believe something else.

Every little girl deserves a grandpa who spoils his grandchildren, tells stories about horses and ranch life, and never misses the chance to say how much he loves those “damned cute kids.”

Because long after the horses are gone and the saddles hang silent, a cowboy’s greatest legacy is the love that keeps riding through the hearts of the generations he leaves behind.