Roadside Rest

RANGE CALICO

Rather 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.

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. You couldn't say he didn't try, but losin' in that game didn't improve his temper none. Until he gets over this love-sickness, 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. Therewas Brazos Joe who used to ride 50 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 daughter who's pretty as a red heifer in a flower bed. Of course he's always got that common excuse of the range - huntin' hosses - framed up. One day he drops by casual-like an' finds the old man at home a-settin' on the front porch.

his range to drop by old man Johnson's little spread where there's a daughter who's pretty as a red heifer in a flower bed. Of course he's always got that common excuse of the range - huntin' hosses - framed up. One day he drops by casual-like 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 you seen a little blaze-faced sorrel mare with our brand 'round here?"

"Go right on into the parlor. You'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 lovesick cowhands was settin' the bag on a gal, her old man'd have to pour water on the porch stairs 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 acourtin'. 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 handfuls 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 spurs 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'. 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