SUNDOWN SLIM ON SLICKIN' UP

A Breed

He then continued to Arizona and New Mexico, where he lived with the Hopi and Navajo Indians for four years, learning their languages. During this time he was gathering material constantly, painting and making his ethnological studies, especially of the Kachina ceremonial dances, for which the subjects later posed in their costumes, so enabling him to paint these to the most minute detail, resulting in an authentic collection for the reference of future generations.

During his years in the West he was constantly gathering relics of riding acoutrements of horsemen from the Conquistadores to the riders of modern times.

In December, 1906, he returned to California, where he married. He made his home and established his studio at Pebble Beach, where he executed many sculptural commissions, such as the Serra Sarcophagus at the Carmel Mission, the Cervantes monument in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, the four heroic bronzes for the Marland Estate in Ponca City, Oklahoma, thirteen biographical dioramas of Will Rogers at the Will Rogers Memorial Museum, Claremore, Oklahoma, a 100-foot diorama, “The Portolá Expedition” at The Golden Gate International Exposition in 1939, and a heroic bronze monument, “The Doughboy,” San Rafael, California. He made the plaque commemorating the Indian who led the first white man to Rainbow Natural Bridge. It is a large bas-relief of a mounted Indian, and installed on the face of the Rainbow Natural Bridge. Aside from his humorous studies and maps of the West, he wrote and illustrated two books, “Trail Dust and Saddle Leather” and “Californios,” both published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

In history there have been few men in the field of ethnology who were also world renowned artists as Jo Mora. This distinction has made Mr. Mora's work in the fields of art and literature something to be cherished for posterity. Mr. Mora died on October 10, 1947, at the age of 71.

DRAWINGS BY ROSS SANTEE Today's western romance writers always have their hero fresh an' handsome an' duded up like a ridin' advertisement for a leather shop. But the real cowhand don't look like no fresh daisy. Follow him for a day an' y'u'll know he's attendin' no ladies' finishin' school. His hours are long an' hot, his work hard an' dusty. With his hide soakin' up dust, the smoke of brandin' fires, the stench of burnin' hair an' the blood of calves' ears, he's liable to get considerable whiffy on the lee side.

The cowboy don't have a shower an' one of them vallays to lay out fresh linen after a session at the brandin' pen, but he ain't water shy. Dirt's not his idea of comfort an' he keeps as clean as conditions allow. Ever'time he finds a water-hole he takes a cold plunge without soap or towels an' lets his underriggin' dry while washin' out the old canyon, which, in cowboy language, means takin' a bath.

Back in the early days, if a puncher fooled 'round much with Injuns, he was apt to inherit a cavvy of graybacks 'cause most redskins pastured a herd of this crawlin' stock. As soon as a hand finds himself supportin' any seam squirrels he pickets his clothes on an anthill an' gives these cave dwellers a chance to fatten. If no anthill's handy he goes to the creek, washes his clothes, then layin' 'em on a big rock he takes a smaller one an' pounds the seams to slaughter some of the biggest an' fattest ones that didn't drown.

If some puncher's lazy an' don't mind givin' these varmints free bed an' board, the boss reads the Scriptures to him pronto. Then, if he does nothin' to wash his sins away, he's ordered to pull his picket pin an' drift to other ranges.

In the old trail days when a hand had been on the trail for three or four months his clothes'd get plenty stiff with grease an' river mud. The first thing he did when he hit town at the end of the trail was to rattle his hocks for a barbershop where he could take a civilized soakin' in hot water with big woolly towels an' sweet smellin' soap.

Splashin' there in the suds, he's enjoyin' life like a kid pullin' a pup's ears. After he comes out of that dippin' vat he buys ever'thing the barber's got. When he leaves that place, clean and brown as if he'd been scrubbed with saddle soap, his own folks wouldn't know him either by sight or smell. Then, after outfittin' himself with new wearin' gear, he proceeds to try an' ketch up on the fun he's missed.

Out on the range, haircuts don't bother him much. He jes' lets her grow till he gets to town. In case his hair starts down his back or clogs up his ears before he gets in, he gets some puncher who's handy with the shears to gather his wool crop. In the old days an Injun haircut was the only one he was shy of. This called for a certain amount of hide, an' no puncher wanted to see his hair hangin' from an Injun's belt. Havin' his hair pins undone that way was a shock to his idea of barber work. Seems like about the only ambition an Injun had was to raise hell an' hair. He shore wouldn't take no blue ribbons at barberin', accordin' to the white man's standards.

To protect his face from the sun an' wind, the puncher lets his whiskers grow, unless he's ridin' over to see some nester filly, or goin' to a stomp. On these occasions, he digs up the outfit's dull razor, strops it on a latigo strap, an' tries to make a lather with laundry soap an' gyp water. But makin' lather with these ingredients is like huntin' a hoss thief in Heaven. Divorcin' them bristles is 'bout as refreshin' as bein' burned at stake. When he's through it looks like he's grubbed 'em out instead of cuttin' 'em off. He's dewlapped an' wattled till he looks like he'd crawled through a bobwire fence, had an argument with a catamount in a briar patch an' come out second best.

On roundup he don't pack much more'n 'nough extry clothes to dust a fiddle, but these he tries to keep clean. Ever'time the work slows up he'll boil out his underriggin', shirts an' socks. If he can't find time to boil 'em he jes' rinses 'em out an' hangs 'em on a mesquite to dry.

Let a woman visit a roundup wagon an' y'u'll soon see these cow nurses sneakin' away to feel 'round between their soogans for cleaner shirts an' pants. They won't come back till they've been to the creek, if there's one handy. Shinin' faces an' wet, slicked down hair give 'em away like a shirtful of fleas.

A cowhand's mighty careful of his feet an' never passes up a chance to soak 'em in some shaded water-hole while he lets his hoss blow. His foot rags might not be much more'n a chin-strap to keep 'em from climbin' up his legs, but he keeps 'em clean. Tight boots an' cotton socks make feet sweat, an' sweatin' means scalds.

On gettin' up in the mornin', the first thing a cowhand reaches for is his hat. After that comes his pants an' boots; then he reaches for his sack of Bull Durham. A few drags on a cigarette an' he hoofs it over to the wash basin to snort in it a couple of times to get the sleep out of his eyes. That done, he paws over a towel, which, judgin' from its complexion, has been plenty pop'lar. If he's more particular than some, he uses the broken-toothed comb that's tied to the wagon bed, tryin' to get out tangles that break a few more teeth.

On most every range there's a fashion leader, one of them dudes that spends his wages on his back. After payday, by the time he gets through addin' fancy dodads to his wardrobe, he can count his coin without takin' it from his pocket. When he gets all spraddled out in his low-necked clothes, an' goes swallow-forkin' to town in his full warpaint, y'u can jes' bet that fancy trimmin' ain't the least in his thoughts.

He might be as handsome as an ace-full on kings, but it mighty often happens he's more ornamental than useful. In rough range work he's inclined to favor his duds for fear he'll scar up some garment that cost him a month's pay. Clothes don't make the man in the cow country. It's the man that's the cowhand, not the outfit he wears.

Lookin' glasses on the range are mighty scarce so these fellers admire themselves by shadow ridin', feastin' on the picture their shadows make on a sunshiny day. They are known as sunshine riders, or shadow riders. Clouds don't have no silver linin's for this breed.

The California buckroo's a top hand at puttin' on the dog, an' goes in for a lotta fancy riggin'. When the sun blazes on his silver conchas an' fancy trimmin's y'u can see him for miles. The Texas puncher's not so much for pretty. The chances are he's dodgin' some sheriff an' avoids sun reflectin' gadgets like he would a swamp. But he's got his vanity too. His weakness is five-pointed stars stitched in his boots, chaps or saddle. For a Texas man not to be totin' stars on his duds is considered most as bad as votin' the Republican ticket.

The average hand feels dressed up in a pair of old worn Levis, but y'u'll never ketch him wearin' a pair of bib over-alls like a laborer wears, any more'n he'll be wearin' the clumsy, heavy cowhide boots of a sod-buster, nor a spur on a single foot like a sheepherder. Fancy riggin's in the drag of his thoughts.

If y'u really want to see fancy cow duds y'u'll find 'em on some stall-fed tenderfoot who's come West huntin' some of that romance he's been readin' in books. Chances are he's been raised on the Brooklyn Bridge an' never been closer to a cow than a can of Eagle Brand, but when he sallies forth from the outfitters he looks like a dime novel on a spree. The first one of these shorthorns I ever seen I thought he was a mail-order catalog on foot. Put him with a bunch of cowmen an' he'd show up like a tin roof in a fog.

Some of them greeners at a dude ranch dress up in heavy, hairy chaps which make 'em walk like a man with a new suit of woolen underwear. Cowboy riggin' jes' don't seem to fit so good on a man that's growed up with a collar 'round his neck. I remember one who come ridin' to town wearin' so much hair an' leather it's sweatin' him down like a tallow candle. Y'u'd a-thought the weather was cold 'nough to make a polar bear hunt cover, but it was July an' hotter'n hell with the blower on.

After buyin' a big hat an' a pair of ridin' boots, he gets one of them silk shirts that makes y'u want smoked glasses to ease the strain on yore eyes. The workin' cowboy usually wears dark shirts. They don't glare in the sun, nor show dirt so easy. It's the modern rodeo rider that advertises the colors of the rainbow an' makes the tenderfoot think they're the style. The range man usually wears dark flannel or black sateen, loose an' open at the neck, an' he wouldn't be a cowboy if the last half of it wasn't a-hangin' out most of the time. At night, when the day's been hot an' the calves big, these dark shirts maybe show a rim of salty white across the back, but they keep him from coolin' off too quick.

The cowhand of the range never wears a coat, unless it's cold, an' not often then if he's got any ropin' to do. He needs freedom of motion in ever'thing he does an' coats interfere with this freedom. Maybe he hasn't owned a coat in years, but he's always got a vest. Usually it's ripped up the back by cactus an' catclaw an' hangin' to his neck by the neckband. He don't wear this garment for the warmth it gives, but for the storage room it furnishes to pack matches, a plug of tobacco, or his sack of makin's. That little Bull Durham tag a-hangin' outside is a sign of the callin'-