The Cowman Says It Salty

Says It Salty

To a dance and she's a-scratchin' the grease off my pants at ever' jump. Seein' I can't make the fence in time, Brazos Gowdy jumps down and throws his hat in the ole gal's face. Seein' a cowboy come apart in pieces like that makes her hesitate till I climbs the fence without losin' anything more'n some confidence, a lot o' wind and a little dignity. Y'u kin take it from me that a cow with a fresh-branded calf might be a mother, but she shore ain't no lady."

Such speech, aside from its length, is typical of the cowhand. Is there anyone here whose interest wouldn't be stirred by such picturesque language? I have never yet met a cowhand whose language did not contain this vigorous freshness. He needed no education in his profession. Although he held "book learnin'" to be a great thing for the "other feller," he had little use for language so polished "y'u could skate on it." The man who used words that "run eight to the pound" or, as one said, words that "showed up as big as a skinned hoss" held his respect, but he much preferred to talk with some one who could "chew it finer" so that he could understand their meaning.

His language has taken on somewhat the character of a boisterous land. Being both courageous and resourceful, he can best express his thoughts with comparisons and exaggerations. He early developed a vernacular partaking of his occupation and full of allusions to the familiar things of his life. Colored with native slang, and variegated by the influence of the Mexican in the Southwest and the Indian in the Northwest, his language has developed into the most picturesque in America.

I used to wonder why the cowboy could never seem to resist using some figure of speech when a plain statement would serve his purpose. But during the years I learned that he takes delight in painting these word pictures because it gives his speech that strength he is always seeking. I made a return visit to a ranch and missed one of the boys for whom I had developed a liking. When I inquired about him, one of the other hands, instead of merely telling me he had taken a job as a deputy sheriff, said "Oh, he's packin' a six-gun for the county, an' sportin' a tin badge on his brisket that shows up like a patent medicine sign."

On a New Mexico ranch one of the hands was a newcomer, having been there only about a week. The old hands were a little suspicious of him because he "kept his eyes on the horizon like he was expectin' a sheriff to bulge up on 'im." One of the old hands offered to bet the others that this new man "come whippin' a mighty tired pony out o' Texas," a common expression for "on the dodge.

The new hand overheard the remark.

"No, boys," he said, "I didn't have to leave Texas. The sheriff come to the state line an' jes' begged me to come back."

In speaking of an outlaw making his get away I heard a cowhand in Arizona say, "Him an' the sheriff swaps lead an' then has a hoss race. Another spoke of a "high-line rider" with "when he got a hankerin' to sniff Gulf breeze he didn't stop for no kissin'." It would have been Greek to a tenderfoot had he heard Matt Carson telling a story and say of his subject, "he covered his back with his belly an' done a little sagehennin'." However, a cowman would know he meant that the one spoken of had been forced to spend the night on the prairie without blankets.

The cowman is often very indirect in some of his statements. To the uninitiated it would sound like a riddle, but it is no "boggy crossin'" for another cowman.

For instance, one was telling me about his bunkie coming home drunk.

"An' y'u know," he said, "that son-of-a-gun piled into bed jes' like a rooster."

Not being sure if he meant merely "cock-eyed" and full of "Old Crow," I asked "How's that?"

"With his spurs on," he said as if astonished I did not comprehend his meaning without question.

Another example which would perhaps puzzle the tenderfoot I heard on a ranch in Montana. When one of the boys failed to show up at supper the boss asked about him.

"He's out in the bunkhouse a-settin' on the side of his bunk readin' his shirt by lamplight," answered one rider between mouthfuls.

Everyone present then knew that the absentee was trying to rid his clothes of "seam squirrels," the common name for body lice.

Another rider in Montana returned to the ranch from a week's visit to an Indian camp where he had acquired a collection of these insects. Not wanting to let them get established in the bunkhouse, the other hands made him undress and throw his clothes out into the yard where they had a pot of water boiling. After he had quit throwing clothes through the door, the fire-tender yelled to know if there were any more.

"I can't go no deeper without a skinnin' knife," replied the other. "I'm naked as a worm."

Though he is a profane man and can use a language that would peel the hide off a Gila monster, the old-time cowman was not without his religion. He had small opportunity to attend church, but through his knowledge of nature and the great outdoors he knew there was a Higher Being. During the nights on roundup when he lay out in the open he studied the heavenly bodies and perhaps felt more closely akin to God than did the city man with all his churches.

Though many of them, as one said, had their religion "in their wives' names," they were honest about it and had no use for a hypocrite. George Jackson expressed the common sentiment of the cowman in speaking of a certain hypocrite.

"He's a double-dyed hypocrite," declared George, "and ever' time he gits into trouble he tries to pull hisself out of a hole by gittin' down on his prayer-bones and taffyin' the Lord up."

Many a cowman has had experiences with some town banker whom he felt had squeezed him unnecessarily hard. Consequently many of them did not stand very high in the cowman's regard. One old cowman described a certain banker as "a feller who'd loan y'u an umbrella when the sun's shinin', but wants it back pronto when it starts to sprinkle." I heard another say of a banker "he wouldn't loan y'u a nickel 'less y'u got the Lord an' all His dee-ciples to go on yore note."

No matter what you ask a cowman he is apt to promptly reply with a unique comparison. One drought year in West Texas I happened to meet an old rancher friend on the street and asked him about conditions. After he got through "cussin'" the weather he finished by saying "My cows look like the runnin' gears of a katydid." Another told me the whole range "looked like hell with the folks moved out," and that his cattle "was so thin they looked like they had only one gut." In the opinion of others "the whole range wouldn't support a horned frog" and there "wasn't 'nough grass left to chink 'tween the ribs of a sandfly." Such a season in New Mexico brought forth the remark that it was "so dry a grass widder wouldn't take root."

Very few of the old dyed-in-the-wool cowboys wanted to live in town. He would feel as "out of place as a cow on a front porch." One old-timer who had returned to the ranch from the city where he had gone to visit his married daughter was asked how he liked town life.

"Y'u couldn't hold me in one o' them places with a Spanish bit," he answered. "Give me a country where a man kin switch his tail."

"Turkey Red" (a nickname shortened from "Turkey Track Red" and given to distinguish him from the other red-heads of the immediate range) had never been to a large town until the boss sent him to Ft. Worth with a load of steers. After check-ing in the cattle at the stockyards in North Ft. Worth, he decided to catch a street car and put up in Ft. Worth proper so he could see the sights.

All his life he had heard about smooth city-slickers so he was wary. After he registered at the hotel one of the bell-hops picked up his luggage to lead him to the elevator.

"They call them fellers bell-hops," said Turkey Red in telling of his trip. "I didn't see no bells on 'em, but I shore made one of 'em hop. This hopper picks up my war-bag like he's goin' to take it away some place. I don't figger to lose that sack o' my savin's of a lifetime. All my low-necked clothes an' my pet six-gun was in that sack.

"I tried to grab it away from 'im but he hangs onto it like an Injun to a whiskey jug an' grins like a jackass eatin' cactus. This makes me mad 'nough to kick a hog barefooted so I digs my boot heel into his toes an' bears down like I'm ropin' a bronc on foot.

"Well sir, this hombre not only lets go all holts, but he lets loose a howl that'd make a she-wolf jealous an' starts jumpin' up an' down like a barrel boundin' down hill. For a while he looks busier'n a little dog in high oats."

Turkey Red might not have known "sic 'em" about city life, but I defy the most educated city man to tell of such an experience in a more forceful or picturesque language.

When a cowhand gets the "saddle itch" and wants to see what is on the other side of the hill, or go where "he can throw a rope without gettin' it caught on a fence-post," he wants to stay in the cow country and be with his own kind. Only occasionally would one "pull his picket pin" or "slip his hobbles" to drift East, as one would say, to "have his horns knocked off" or "get the hay out of his horns." After a cow-hand marries, or, in his own language, "gets hogtied with matrimonial ropes," he usually settles down and spends the rest of his life in one section. As Bud Lucas used to say, "goin' 'round a coffee pot huntin' for the handle would cover the extent of his travels."

One cowhand, who "had callouses from pattin' his own back," was bragging about the places he had been. One of the other riders shut him up with "when y'u hit this ranch y'u was so green we had to tie yore foot up to give y'u a haircut. I know for a fact that y'u've never been closer to the risin' sun than the Pecos River."

In my search for examples of this rich lingo I'd like to relate a little experience I had in a small town of New Mexico. Dusty Lynch took it upon himself to show me around. He suggested that we ride in from the ranch and visit this little cow-town.

"If y'u'll calf 'round any saloon while the boys're gatherin' a talkin' load," he confided, "y'u'll maybe collect some remarks to put in yo' little tallybook. Ketch 'em 'fore their tongues git so thick they have to resort to the sign language, and y'u'll hear some real verbal lather. It's the first few cow swallers o' that conversation fluid that brings out the tongue oil."

This town was of the typical false-fronted variety where most of the doors swing both ways, and as one cowhand had said, it was a town "with the hair on." The first place we entered seemed to be the popular saloon of the town. It was crowded and already becoming boisterous with loud-mouthed conversation and the friendly back-slapping of new arrivals. The man in the once white apron on the sober side of the bar was eyeing the crowd with growing apprehension.

"I'm a-thinking' y'u'll soon be hearin' some chin music y'u kin use," said Dusty, as we paused near the door to consider this motley crowd through a stratified layer of tobacco smoke. He then moved forward quickly to slap a friend on the back with "Hiyah Zeb, y'u ole catawampus. Watcha doin' here lappin' up likker like a fired cowhand?"

"Thish is barg'in night," answered his friend Zeb Fisher drunkenly. "The ole bar-dog here's shervin' a free schnake with ever' drink."

"This is bargain night," answered his friend Zeb Fisher drunkenly. "The ole bar-dog here's serving a free schnake with ever' drink."

"Yeah," said a fellow next to Zeb, raking his spurs ruthlessly on the once varnished bar front, "this t'rantula juice'd draw blood-blisters on a rawhide boot."

About this time a young red-headed puncher started to leave "reelin' 'round like a pup tryin' to find a soft spot to lie down in" till he could get his sense of direction. When he finally discovered the door and zigzagged toward it, someone yelled, "Hey, Red, somebody done stole yo' rudder." Then everyone laughed, and I found Dusty's predictions coming true. I had discovered a new fountainhead for many rich examples of the cowboy's lusty speech.

There is an underlying humor in nearly every utterance of the cowboy. Sitting around listening to a group of them talk among themselves is better than the best vaudeville show I ever saw. Their humor is rich and unaffected.

Most of them are full of humorous sarcasm toward another who had failed in an undertaking. He never gets sympathy. When a roper missed his throw at a steer for the third time, another cowhand rode up and said, "Say, why don't y'u put a stamp on it an' send it to 'im by mail?'"

Another, thrown from a bucking horse, the event being described by one cowhand as "he went sailin' off, his hind legs kickin' 'round in the air like a migratin' bullfrog in full flight," had hardly landed when one of his companions rushed to where he lay and lifted one foot to look at his boot sole. "What y'u lookin' for? It's my head that hurts."

"Y'u got throwed so high I was tryin' to see if St. Peter whittled his initials on yore boots," answered the other solemnly.

When one rider was thrown pretty hard the crowd watching the show from the top rail of the corral told him that he made such a hole "we thought y'u was borin' for water." A green kid I know from the piney woods of East Texas arrived at a West Texas ranch and asked for a job cowboyin'! The boss put him on the payroll solely to give the regular hands something to poke fun at and keep them in a good humor.

But this lad was seriously ambitious to become a cowboy. At the first opportunity he roped and saddled a bronc which had been brought up and penned in the corral to await delivery to a buyer of rodeo horses. Sabine so named because he was from down on the Sabine River tried to ride this "gut-twister" without anyone being the wiser. After he had been "throwed" four or five times the commotion attracted the attention of the boys at the bunk house. Several of them rushed to the corral just as he was dragging himself up to make another try. One of the qualifications of a rider is intestinal fortitude and this kid had it.Curly Mallison looked with interest at the ground the kid had plowed up in his many falls.

"What y'u tryin' to do, kid? Puttin' in a crop?" he asked. "The Ole Man won't like y'u jumpin' a claim he's already got under fence," said another.A third fun-loving cowboy squatted on his heels like he was taking sight, then solemnly declared, "Y'u'll have to learn to plow yo' furrows straighter."

One of the inherent characteristics of the cowboy is exaggeration. Not only does he have a talent for telling tall tales, but he has a genius for exaggeration in ordinary conversation. He is of a big country, with big mountains, big canyons, big horizons and big men. As an example, if some cowboy had a fight and came out somewhat scratched up, someone would be apt to describe his appearance as "he looks like he'd crawled through a bob-wire fence to fight a wildcat in a briar patch barefooted," or "he lost 'nough hide to half-sole an elephant." If you have ever ridden a horse that suddenly "swallowed his head" and unexpectedly started bucking, you know how hard it is to find the saddle horn. Pike Keeler told of such an experience in typical cowboy language when he said, "That hoss seemed to find somethin' on his nose he wanted to wipe off, an' when I reached for the saddle horn my arm was too short." Once when we were watching a bully showing off and doing his best to pick a fight with a little old inoffensive man, Joe Phelps said disgustedly, "There's a case of big behavior if I ever saw one." Who but a cowboy would have thought of such a comparison? Most bullies are held with contempt in the cow country. To the good citizen they are "all gurgle and no guts," or, as one said, "They're as yeller as mustard, but without the bite." If two men were close friends and fond of each other they were "made of the same leather," "got 'long like two pups in the same basket," or were "thicker'n splatter." But if they became enemies they "got 'long like two bobcats in a gunny sack," and when they met "there was hair in the butter." When a cowhand on the TJ Ranch spoke of a certain man he didn't like he finished by saying, "Why I wouldn't speak to him if I met him in hell packin' a lump of ice on his head." In my note books are thousands of examples of the cowman's salty talk upon every subject. Take the weather, for instance: if it is hot it is "hot as the backlog of hell," "hotter'n a burnt boot" or "hotter'n hell with the blower on." If it is cold it is "cold 'nough to make a polar bear hunt cover," "colder'n a well digger in Montana," or "cold as Christmas in Amarillo." If it is dry it is "dry as a covered bridge," "drier'n a cork leg," or "dry as a Methodist sermon." If it is wet it is "boggy 'nough to bog a buzzard's shadow," "wet 'nough to bog a snipe," or "it hasn't rained so much since Noah." In telling of a stampede one cowhand said the night was "so black the bats all stayed home." Another spoke of a dark night as being "so dark y'u couldn't find yore nose with both hands." If a person is thin he is "lean as a desert grasshopper," "built like a snake on stilts" and he'd "have to stand twice to make a shadow." If he is fat he's "beef plumb to the hocks," "bigger'n a load of hay," "big 'nough to shade an elephant" and "for weight an' size he'd take first prize at a bull show." One cowhand described a large woman as being "big 'nough to hunt bears with a switch" and claimed that if she'd "add four more pounds she could jine a sideshow." If a person is tall he "wore his pant's pocket high off the ground," was "built high above his corns," and "it would take a steeple-jack to look 'im in the eye." If he is short he "couldn't see over a swaybacked burro," "had to borrow a ladder to kick a gnat on the ankle," and "drags the ground when he walks." Thus we could go on and on giving examples. Though in a short article one is only able to touch a few high spots, I hope I have at least given you an idea of the picturesque phraseology of the cowman. He has contributed greatly to the richness of our language. From the time our early frontiersman settled on the edge of civilization he has felt free of conventions and social restrictions. Living in a world of reality and practicality his speech has utilized simple terms of comparison and figure, and these qualities have added a delightful saltiness. If the purist Webster attempts to put the cowman's speech into correct English he only succeeds in destroying its strength and flavor, making it meaningless and farcical. Taking the "salt" from the cowman's speech is like failing to put it in the steaks he raises-leaving it tasteless and unpalatable.

Color in the Land

The dust had blown in from the desert, leaving a dun coat over the logs which a hundred and fifty million years of time, weather and earth convulsions had scattered over the landscape at Petrified Forest. The rains came in the spring, washing the dust away and leaving the logs clean and relucent in the sun. Nature is a good housekeeper. After the rains came, tender green sprouts popped from the ground and soon bright yellow Sego lilies were nodding their impertinent heads in the breeze. Here is drama of color in the land. It took aeons to change living wood to the browns and reds and blues of the minerals in the grim old log and a few weeks to create the fragile yellow beauty of the happy, little flowers. Under the glare of the summer sun, flowers wilt, stalks become dry and lifeless, and delicate yellow beauty returns to the earth from which it sprang. No doubt the old log is perplexed by such foolishness. Silly things, little flowers, here today, gone tomorrow!

The color begins in southern Utah-at Bryce, Zion, Cedar Breaks; at Rainbow Bridge and Vermilion Cliffs; at Arches, Bridges and Monument Valley and seeps through Arizona, variegated and vivid. There are the chocolate hills of Mohave County, through the middle of which stretches an aquamarine ribbon, the Colorado River, which is tied in a white bow, Boulder Dam. There are the rolling foothills of Cochise and Santa Cruz Counties, verdant with thick, rich grass which comes after the summer rains. In between the mauve mountains, sapphire-shadowed canyons, gray-green desert, white sunlight, turquoise sky.

No less colorful than the land are the people native to it. In a world of swirling sand and slick rock are the Navajos, aloof and aristocratic. On their burnished mesas live the Hopis, industrious and self-sufficient, clinging to ancient ways, ancient beliefs. There are the desert Indians, patiently working the obdurate soil, and there are the proud Apaches, remembering not their forebears who carried a flaming torch through the land, but shrewdly watching the price of beef. There are, too, the Havasupais, in their magenta canyon, living by a creek of blue-green, singing water.