TEX: GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN

A Pipestone Letter

By N. Vernon-Wood

—WB Ranch

Pipestone Creek, Alberta

Mr. John Lincoln

Wall Street, N.Y.

DEAR FRIEND:

There’s been a whole lot of water gone over the Bow falls since I wrote you last, but you know how it is. Just about the time I’m ready to take pen in hand an’ inflict a mess of local gossip on you, some bird comes down the trail with a cayuse to trade, or mebbe the pasture fence needs fixin’, or the venison’s gettin’ low. By the time a man’s caught up on them chores he’s wore out & has to recouperate, so he wrastles a couple of broncs and takes a sashay over the Pass to see how the Elk crop’s doin’, or is the hoss feed any good.

Now I got all kinds of sympathy for blokes that are always findin’ excuses for not doin’ such extranious things as shavin’, writin’ letters, or washin’ dishes, but when it comes to the serious business of Life, like huntin’ & fishin’—when a guy dallies around, he’s got me beat.

Me an’ Sawback Smith, we’re willin’ to guide ‘most any variety of Pilgrim that buys R.R. tickets to these parts, an’ can usually point out a Elk or a Goat that’s honin’ to get busted with lead. But when it comes to actin’ as a gentleman’s personal gentleman to a coupla fashion-plate Pilgrims who are so bloomin’ equestrian they can’t get off their knotheads long enough to eat, we don’t do so good.

Like last Fall. Sawback an’ me sold ourselves down the river to a pair of Dudes who aimed to tangle with a flock of Grizzly, Elk, Deer, Side-hill Gougers, Pinto Cayuses, & other Western fauna. Me & him are down at the deepo when the Trans Canada come in, waitin’ to pick up our Pilgrims an’ incidental to get a eyeful of the youth & beauty from Massachusetts, Sutton Place, an’ Bailey’s Beach who are headin’ for the rustic comforts of the big hotel.

I’M TRYIN’ TO LOOK plumb sang froid as I hear a pippin say to her buddy, “Look at that perfeckly delightful cow person, Madge!” when Sawback jabs his elbow clear up to the shoulder into my quiverin’ diagram. “D’yuh see what I see?” he sez.

Comin’ up the platform are a pair of sports that for sartorial munificence have got Mrs. Astor’s plush goat lookin’ like a grizzled section hand. They’re the combined produck of the leadin’ fashion pages, a Bond Street tailor, an’ untrammeled imagination. It’s a symphony of checked mackinaw in the pastel shades—Red, Yeller, Green, with an over-check of Royal Purple. I’m lost complete in wonder & amazement an’ don’t notice, till I hear Sawback cussin’, that they’re totin’ gun cases. It seems that these are our huntin’ buddies for the follerin’ two weeks, God help us!

FOR THE NEXT COUPLE of days, while we’re trailin’ out to the game country, we’re sizin’ each other up. I notice that when them dudes tell their huntin’ experiences they bear down heavy on the fact that they rode up on their game. Now, I got nothin’ against hosses, but there’s a heap of places in these hills where a cayuse is just another unnecessity, an’ there’s lots of times you have to tie him to a tree while you stalk afoot. Then you see somethin’ interestin’ up & over, or ‘way down agen, but you can’t carry on because you’ve got to retrieve dobbin.

One of these Pilgrims tells what he alleges is a humorous story.

He’s on a huntin’ trip, an’ one AM is layin’ in his flea bag when a Grouse perches on the tent roof. All he can see through the canvas is the print of the bird’s feet, so he reaches stealthily for his fowlin’ piece and blasts that fool hen from the inside, thereby qualifyin’ for the Shootem Sittin’ Club, an’ providin’ a problem in needlework for his guide an’ mentor, who likely had to sacrifice his shirt tail to patch the rag house.

Funny, huh? Like hell; but it gives me a line on that bird’s habits & disposition. It turned plenty cold before we hit the huntin’ camp, but there was two-three inches of fresh trackin’ snow that made us feel good. On the way down to the crick next mornin’ I run across a fresh set of Grizzly tracks, so cuttin’ the mattutinal absolutions short, I gallop for the tent to stir up the Dudes. I expect ’em to come boilin’ out like a fire department. Instead, one sez, “Okay. You go an’ get the saddle hosses while we shave an’ have breakfast.”

“But it’ll take mebbe two hours to find the knotheads, an’ even then we can’t make walkin’ time in this mess of deadfall,” I tell him.

Right away one Pilgrim decides he ain’t lost any Grizzly, and rolls over for another bout with Morpheus. I coax the other into his purple an’ fine linen, an’ stand around while he scrapes his face, manicures his nails, an’ tonics his hair. He dallies with his bacon & flap-jacks, an’ at long last we get goin’.

Instead of splashin’ through the crick, which is all of four inches deep, he wanders up & down the bank lookin’ for a log to cross on. When he found one, he got halfway across an’ fell off. His mackinaw britches are all of a half inch thick, but there’s a cupful of water splashed on ’em, so he returns to camp to break out another pair, an’ that finishes that hunt. An’ I’ve guided female women who’ve jumped into a glacier-fed crick up to their shirt pockets to bring a trout to net!

THE CLIMAX COME about a week later. Our Pilgrims ain’t fired a shot yet, Elk and what-not bein’ unaddicted to perchin’ on tent roofs.

Sawback comes boilin’ out of their wickiup, where he has been in conference. The Pilgrims have been tryin’ to persuade him to hunt Elk on alder slides by hossback—them slides bein’ navigable only by a man who’s willin’ to wear out his vest crawlin’. Sawback dashes over to where I’m watchin’ a pair of Bulls, about a thousand feet above camp, an’ blurts: “I’m through—-feenee,” he sez. “There’s them two resplendent hot-house producks layin’ in bed with their sweaters & coats on, an’ wooley caps over their ears, tellin’ me how to hunt.”

Which is just about as reasonable as me tryin’ to tell a Antelope how to run.

If I can’t figger a good alibi, I’ll be writin’ you agen.

Yours truly,

TEX.

Hunting and Fishing, August 1936, 14