Range Calico

The early West was a man's country. Until it became more settled range calico was as scarce as sunflowers on a Christmas tree. This scarcity of woman made her kinda awesome to the cowboy an' he looked upon her as bein' somethin' holy an' plumb precious.

No other breed of men on earth respects women more'n the range man. He's apt to be pretty techy in protectin' her character. He feels that a man's pretty low that'll bring a woman into contact with dirt, or allow her to touch it of her own accord. He places her on a high fence because he wants to look up to her. He wants her feminine an' fluffs all over.

Because he's shy as a pup with his first porcupine, shestuff shore makes him git his spurs tangled up. In her presence he's as polite as a tin-horn gambler on payday. He don't jes' tip his hat like the city man, but uncovers his head completely, even if he does feel half naked with his hat off.

Most of his natural talk's half-soled with cuss words, an' he might let one slip now an' then in her presence, but he'll never use a word that's vulgary if a woman's around. In fact, when he first meets her he's too shy to do much talkin'. A feller might be as full of verbal lather as a soap peddler 'round other punchers, but a woman hogties his chin music an' makes him hobble-tongued.

After cow towns were established some of the first women he met were the hurdy-gurdy gals, or them that lived in the badlands where the lights were red an' the carpets soft. Even if these gals had strayed off the main trail away from the home corral before their soul had got its full growth some of 'em had a heart as big as a saddle blanket. The cowhand respected their kind more than most men. A few of these gals fell for some cowboy because of this unexpected respect, an' spent her time fussin' over him like a sage hen over a wild goslin. Occasionally one would marry a rangeman, settle down an' make a good wife an' mother.

Later more married men came out to the range bringin' their families. If there was a pretty daughter the whole range'd soon be sufferin' with Cupid's cramp, an' some favored puncher'd be callin' on her as reg'lar as a goose goes barefooted. The fewness of women didn't lessen a cowhand's wish to go a-courtin'. A pretty woman could choose from the whole range. Of course these gals could cause a heap of jealousy, an' men, once good friends, would soon be gittin' 'long like two bobcats in a gunnysack. A fickle woman's like a careless man with a gun. They're both apt to hurt somebody.

That naked little runt with the bow an' arrow we call Cupid can shore booger up a peeler. Once he's shot with that weapon he starts campin' on the trail of some filly till he's slapped his brand on her an' tied her to the snortin' post, or she's got him walkin' the fence.

There not bein' 'nough women to go 'round in the early days, some punchers didn't have no more show in their courtin' than a one-legged man at a kickin' contest. Y'u couldn't say he didn't try, but losin' in that game didn't improve his temper none. Until he gets over this lovesickness he's so disagreeable a shepherd dog can't git 'long with him.

I'd hate to tell how far some of those old waddies would ride jes' to look at a gal. There's Brazos Joe who used to ride fifty miles to town ever' chance he got to spend his wages for pies an' such throat ticklin' truck, eatin' like a hoss balin' bunchgrass till he develops a chronic bellyache, all because there's a biscuit-shooter workin' there that's easy on the eyes. After he meets this gal, he swears there's a mistake in the census report, an 'there ain't but one gal in the U. S.

A Mill Iron puncher used to ride plumb off his range to drop by old man Johnson's little spread where there's a a'courtin'. When he rides up, if she's out on the porch to meet him, he gigs his hoss in a tender spot so he'll buck a little. If she's visitin' from the East a few crow hops or little goatin' 'round may impress her, but he has to do some real ridin' to fool a ranch gal. Sometimes that hoss swaps ends quicker'n a flea can hop out of danger an' this rider's pickin' himself up with two handful of somethin' he don't want. Maybe there's nothin' busted except his ego, but all his bolts an' hinges might be loosened.

A Turkey Track puncher mounted his hoss to ride out to look after some fences. As he swung a leg over his hoss an Eastern visitor came out on the back porch to see him off. Thinkin' he'd make a hit by showin' her some real ridin', he shoves the galves into this old hoss he's ridin'. He's makin' a straight up ride too, but he's forgot about that clothesline stretched across the yard. When this ketches him under the chin it strips him from the saddle. While he's hangin' there like a man doin' a strangulation jig, she goes into the house all doubled up laughin'. daughter who's pretty as a red heifer in a flower bed. Of course he's always got that common excuse of the rangehuntin' hosses framed up. One day he drops by casuallike an' finds the old man at home a-settin' on the front porch.

"I'm out lookin' for strays," says this puncher, kinda surprised at findin' the old man at home. "Have y'u seen a little blaze-faced sorrel mare with our brand 'round here?"

"Go right on into the parlor. Y'u'll find her a-settin' on the sofa," grins the old man, jerkin' his head toward the front door. This hoss hunter didn't fool him none. He'd been young once himself.

When some of them love-sick cowhands was settin' the bag on a gal her old man'd have to pour water on the porch steps to keep 'em from settin' there all night. More'n one courtin' cowboy nearly starved his Sunday hoss to death keepin' it tied to her old man's hitchin' rack.

Maybe some cowhand likes to show off to the gal he's When he ketches his hoss an' crawls on ag'in he don't say nothin', but it wouldn't a-been safe to ask questions. He's mad 'nough to kick a hog barefooted. After that he avoided this gal like he would a swamp.

When the nesters began driftin' into the cow country some of 'em brought daughters pretty as a painted wagon. It didn't take a cowhand long to find out where she lived. He'd find some excuse to ride over her way an' somehow ever' time he'd ride by he'd develop a burnin' thirst an' stop to ask for water. No matter how gyppy it was he'd drink it like it was nectar. When he looked into her eyes over the rim of that tin cup an' found 'em soft an' leathery as blackstrap lick poured onto a tin plate, he'd take to her like honeysuckle to a front porch.

She's soon got him cinched to the last hole an' they're gittin' 'long like two pups in a basket. When he goes 'round advertisin' that she's so sweet bee trees is gall beside her, or talkin' 'bout her bein' as pure as the Christmas snow, it won't be long till she's puttin' hobbles on him.

Her old man's usually kinda religious an' don't like cowboys. They drink an' gamble, are wild an' quick to fight, an' spend their money as free an' easy as suicide. But the daughter finds 'em more attractive than the sodbustin' boys. She likes their jinglin' spurs, their gaudy dress, their broad grin an' free heartedness. When a nester boy comes a'courtin' he thinks he's a sport when he brings her a ten-cent bag of gum drops. The cowhand brings her the biggest box of candy he can find in town, an' apologizes because he can't find a bigger one. He's generous with her little brothers an' sisters too. Anyway, a ridin' man's always been more romantic than a man on foot.

In ridin' over the range, if he comes across a little house with a garden in the back, or a flower bed out in front, it's a shore sign there's a woman livin' there. A few plants in tomato cans settin' in a curtained window will make him stop an' do a little wishful thinkin'.

While thumbin' through some thick wish book, he'd lingered many a time with a heap of wonder at the women's more personal wearin' apparel pictured there. If he passed a place an' saw these same garments hangin' on a clothesline, he didn't need a gizzardful of gravel to find an excuse to stop. Of course he's hopin' them clothes belong to some single gal livin' there.

As the West became more settled wisdom-bringers were imported to teach the range yearlin's their three Rs. Some of 'em was from the East, educated to a feather edge, an' as full of information as a mail-order catalog. Being soft an' pretty as a young calf's ears, they never lacked a good saddle hoss an' a willin' escort to ride home with 'em. Some admirin' puncher always jes' happened By with an extra hoss or a buckboard as school was turnin' out.

Some old range waddy even might decide his own education had been neglected an' try to enroll as a private pupil. But she knowed what he was after an' that teachin' him would be as risky as brandin' a mule's tail. She'd as soon learn a bull calf to drink out of a bucket as teach that old dog new tricks. She had other ways of educatin' him. It wasn't book learnin' he was after.

Sometimes she'd left her heart back East an' was as aloof as a mountain sheep. A cowhand didn't have no more show with her kind than a stump-tailed bull in fly time. But it occasionally happened she fell for one of them bowlegged range riders. If she did he wasn't long in mortgagin' his here an' hereafter for the papers necessary to file a permanent claim on her affections an' huntin' a sky-pilot to weld him to the neckyoke. After that she'd have him so bridle-wise he'd stand hitched with the reins hangin' down.

But all them wisdom-bringers wasn't as soft an' fluffy as a goose-hair pillow. Some of 'em was of the old-maid variety an' looked like they'd been weaned on a pickle. She wouldn't attract as much attention as an empty bottle. A man'd shore look at his hole card before droppin' by with a saddle hoss for her kind. If he was loco to do so, she'd probably greet him with a look sour 'nough to pucker a pig's mouth. She always seemed soured on life an' couldn't get the acid from her system. Right away he decided her kind couldn't teach a settin' hen to cluck.

Many an old alkali got plumb dissatisfied with the boar's nest he'd been livin' in when some filly cut his trail. Most unmarried men are as homeless as a pokerchip. Some of 'em would like to settle down an' stay in one place till they rust, but nearly all cowmen are a little skittish of widders, both grass an' sod. It's the voice of ex perience ag'in the amateur. Some of them widders might have a short rope, but they shore throwed a wide loop. Once she's got a man in her trap y'u can't turn her no more'n y'u can a runaway hog. It's like watchin' a bag of fleas to see which way she'll jump next. Y'u take some old buck-nun who's never been hogtied with matrimonial ropes an' he don't savvy she-stuff. When some widder plucks the emblem of bondage from the third finger of the hand she's once give away an' fastens that hand onto him, he's helpless as a cow in quicksand.

I remember watchin' one widder spinnin' her web like a spider after a fly. She's got so much tallow she only needs four more pounds to git into a sideshow, an' she's got 'nough offspring to start a public school. Personally, I'd jes' as soon have married an orphant asylum. Bein' in the lead when tongues was give out, she can talk a pump into believin' it's a windmill. She's soon got her man con venced he needs her worse'n a fish needs water. From then on his leg's tied up an' she's wearin' the bell.

The grass widder, too, is a dangerous critter. Bein' of the grass variety don't mean she's lettin' any of it grow under her feet. When she adjusts her sights for a pore male she don't seem to have no trouble gittin' some rake to gather her hay crop.

The Heart an' Hand woman's another who sometimes came West to shake her rope at some lonely batch. She got this name from that old magazine put out by a matri monial agency. Some love-hungry cowboy'd git a copy through the mail an' read it with a heap of interest-that that is, them that could read. His simple soul believed all them descriptions. Hell, wasn't it printed? He didn't believe y'u could print anything that wasn't the truth.

Sometimes he started a letter courtship with one of these catalog widders who wanted her weeds plowed un der. Maybe it started out of curiosity, to pass the time an' learn news from the outside, or jes' for a joke, but he often found out too late that he'd put a spoke in his wheel, an' some gal was on her way out, ready to surrender like a willow to the wind. He'd find himself drivin' a buckboard fifty miles to the railroad station to meet a lady love he'd really never intended seein' him in his home corral.

The chances are when she stepped off the train the photograph she'd sent didn't show up all the blemishes. Maybe she's got a face built for a hackamore an' ain't nothin' for a drinkin' man to look at, but, as a rule, he ain't no parlor ornament either.

Anyway, he's of a breed who's word's as bindin' as a hangman's knot on a hoss thief's neck, an' let's himself be hooked up in double harness. Occasionally, by the time she's got him harness broke, he's found out she's a cook that can put real flavor in his grub. Once she slips the nosebag on him he's like a grain fed hoss and's never ag'in satisfied with the hay shoveled out by some old roundup coosie. More'n one such marriage has turned out good, both for a man's digestion an' his contentment.

Maybe Eve pluckin' that first apple started this whole thing, but from that day to this, when a woman starts draggin' her loop there's always a man willin' to step into it. Woman has always influenced man, either for good or bad, an' most of us know that a smile from a good woman's worth more'n a dozen handed out by the bartender.