SUNDOWN SLIM ON SLICKIN' UP

ARIZONA CLASSICS HIGHWAYS SUNDOWN SLIM ON SLICKIN' UP

First published in September 1952 Text by Ramon F. Adams 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 first thing he did when he hit town 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.

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.

As soon as a hand finds himself supportin' any seam squirrels, or bugs, 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 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 drippin' 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 Indian 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 Indian's belt. Havin' his hair pins undone that way was

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.

a shock to his idea of barber work. An Indian shore wouldn't take no blue rib-bons at barberin', accordin' to the cowboy'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 the 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 round-up wagon an' y'u'll soon see these sow nurses sneakin' away 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 shirt-ful of fleas.

A cowhand's mighty care-ful of his feet an' never pass-es 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 morn-in' 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. 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 doodads 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 swal-low-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 in-clined to favor his duds for fear he'll scar up some garment that cost him a month's pay.

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 buckaroo's a top hand at puttin' on the dog, an' goes in for a lotta fancy rig-gin'. 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 chanc-es are he's dodgin' some sheriff an' avoids sun reflectin' gad-gets 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 almost as bad as votin' the Republican ticket.

The average hand feels dressed up in a pair of old worn Levi's, but y'u'll never ketch him wearin' a pair of bib overalls 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 sheep-herder. 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 tender-foot who's come West huntin' some of that romance he's been readin' in books. Chanc-es are he's been raised on the Brooklyn Bridge an' never been closer to a cow than a can of Eagle Brand, but whenhe sallies forth from the outfit-ters he looks like a dime novel on a spree.

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 first one of these short-horns 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 greenhorns 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 to fit so good on a man that's growed up with a col-lar 'round his neck. I remem-ber 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 you-know-what 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 glass-es 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 ad-vertises the colors of the rain-bow 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-hang-in' 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 to-bacco, and his sack of mak-in's. That little Bull Durham tag a-hangin' outside is a sign of the callin' like the city cop's badge. He wears this vest loose an' open to let the air get to his body an' not bind him none. At night, after a hot day's work, he maybe but-tons it to keep his body from coolin' off too soon. Mostly they're jes' ordinary vests, but sometimes y'u'll find a rider who's considerably dudish an' goes in for Indian beads or wears a woolen one that looks like some painter has upset the color pot on it.

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 to-bacco, and his sack of mak-in's. That little Bull Durham tag a-hangin' outside is a sign of the callin' like the city cop's badge. He wears this vest loose an' open to let the air get to his body an' not bind him none. At night, after a hot day's work, he maybe but-tons it to keep his body from coolin' off too soon. Mostly they're jes' ordinary vests, but sometimes y'u'll find a rider who's considerably dudish an' goes in for Indian beads or wears a woolen one that looks like some painter has upset the color pot on it.

The brush hand won't be hampered with a coat either, but he does wear a jacket, one that's close fittin' an' without a tail. They're made of heavy duckin' that'll turn thorn, an' are sometimes re-inforced at the elbows with leather. Most of his ridin's done with elbows throwed up over his face to pro-tect it from the whip-pin' brush.

On the colder ranges, the cowhand wears an overcoat in winter. These garments are usually of knee length, made of heavy canvas, light brown in color, an' fleece or blanket lined. To make 'em more windproof, some cover 'em with a coat of paint, an' daubin' with a paint brush always invites the drawing of the brand of the owner he works for.

His pants are mostly hard, close-woven material that can stand rough usage. Call 'em trousers an' he won't know what y'u're talkin' about. To him they're never anything but pants. The old-timer wore 'em stuffed inside his high-topped boots. The modern cow-hand wears 'em outside his short boots, with usu-ally one side of each leg crawlin' up over the top like it ain't on speak-in' terms with the boot heel.

The common style now is the denim Levi's, an overall without a bib. He buys 'em long an' rolls 'em up at the bottom for a turn or two, till they're jes' above his spurs. These turn-ups make a handy place to carry hoss shoe nails an' such.

No matter whether they're pants or Levi's, they'll be hang-in' from his hips without any other support. Galluses are never seen on the range as they bind the shoulders an' interfere with work, an' belts are apt to cause hernia when ridin' a pitchin' hoss.

He takes a heap of pride in his gloves. The cowtown merchant might be able to sell him shoddy clothes at big prices, but he knows better'n to show him anything but the best in gloves. If he tries to sell him sheepskin or anything but genuine buckskin, he'll be called some names that's not in the Sunday School book, besides gettin' some free advertising that won't be to his advantage.

A cowhand wants gloves that won't be injured by gettin' 'em wet. Stiff gloves interfere with ropin' and don't make it any easier to get the right hold mountin' a plungin' hoss. Most Western gloves are made with gauntlets that're covered with plenty of silk embroidery. Some wear stiff leather cuffs, too, to protect their wrists an' keep their shirt sleeves from botherin' 'em.

Many old-time cowhands were so vain they'd wear gloves all the time they weren't asleep. They wasn't sissies, but was advertising the fact they're too good at ridin' an' ropin' to stoop to manual labor. White hands tell y'u they're not a laboring man. Good gloves are a big help in ropin' to keep from gettin' rope burns, an' some men won't rope without 'em. On the other hand, most modern cowmen scorn their use an' claim that it's cheaper to grow skin than to buy it. Their hands are usually tougher than the calluses on a bar-fly's elbows.

I hope later to tell y'u about other riggin' the cowboy wears, but jes' remember when y'u see a workin' cowhand an' he looks like he needs dippin' worse'n his cattle, he enjoys the opportunity of slickin' up an' bein' clean whenever he gets the chance.