Colonel Sterett's War Record.
It had been dark and overcast as to skies; the weather, however, was found serene and balmy enough.As I climbed the steps after my afternoon canter, I encountered the Old Cattleman.He was re-locating one of the big veranda chairs more to his comfort, and the better to enjoy his tobacco.He gave me a glance as I came up.
"Them's mighty puny spurs," he observed with an eye of half commiseration, half disdain; "them's shore reedic'lous.Which they'd destroy your standin' with a cow pony, utter.He'd fill up with contempt for you like a water-hole in April.Shore! it's the rowels;they oughter be about the size an' shape of a mornin' star, them rowels had.Then a gent might hope for action.An' whyever don't you-all wear leather chapps that a-way, instead of them jimcrow boots an' trousers? They're plumb amoosin', them garments be.No, Ionderstands; you don't go chargin' about in the bresh an' don't need chapps, but still you oughter don 'em for the looks.Thar's a wrong an' a right way to do; an' chapps is right.Thar's Johnny Cook of the Turkey Track; he's like you; he contemns chapps.Johnny charges into a wire fence one midnight, sort o' sidles into said boundary full surge; after that Johnny wears chapps all right.Does it hurt him? Son, them wires t'ars enough hide off Johnny, from some'ers about the hock, to make a saddle cover, an' he loses blood sufficient to paint a house.He comes mighty near goin' shy a laig on the deal.It's a lesson on c'rrect costumes that Johnny don't soon forget.
"No, I never rides a hoss none now.These yere Eastern saddles ain't the right model.Which they's a heap too low in the cantle an' too low in the horn.An' them stirrup leathers is too short, an' two inches too far for'ard.I never does grade over-high for ridin' a hoss, even at my best.No, I don't get pitched off more'n is comin'
to me; still, I ain't p'inted out to tenderfeet as no 'Centaur' as Doc Peets calls'em.I gets along without buckin' straps, an' my friends don't have to tie no roll of blankets across my saddle-horn, an' that's about the best I can report.
"Texas Thompson most likely is the chief equestr'an of Wolfville.
One time Texas makes a wager of a gallon of licker with Jack Moore, an' son! yere's what Texas does.I sees him with these eyes.Texas takes his rope an' ties down a bronco; one the record whereof is that he's that toomultuous no one can ride him.Most gents would have ducked at the name of this yere steed, the same bein'
'Dynamite.' But Texas makes the bet I mentions, an' lays for this onrooly cayouse with all the confidence of virgin gold that a-way.
"Texas ropes an' ties him down an' cinches the saddle onto him while he's layin' thar; Tutt kneelin' on his locoed head doorin' the ceremony.Then Tutt throws him loose; an' when he gets up he nacherally rises with Texas Thompson on his back.
"First, that bronco stands in a daze, an' Texas takes advantage of his trance to lay two silver dollars on the saddle, one onder each of his laigs.An' final, you should shorely have beheld that bronco put his nose between his laigs an' arch himse'f an' buck! Reg'lar worm-fence buckin' it is; an' when he ain't hittin' the ground, he's shore abundant in that atmosphere a lot.
"In the midst of these yere flights, which the same is enough to stim'late the imagination of a Apache, Texas, as ca'm an' onmoved as the Spanish Peaks, rolls an' lights a cigarette.Then he picks up the bridle an' gives that roysterin' bronco jest enough of the Mexican bit to fill his mouth with blood an' his mind with doubts, an' stops him.When Texas swings to the ground, them two silver dollars comes jinglin' along; which he holds 'em to the saddle that a-way throughout them exercises.It's them dollars an' the cigarette that raises the licker issue between Jack an' Texas; an' of course, Texas quits winner for the nose-paint."I had settled by this time into a chair convenient to my reminiscent companion, and relishing the restful ease after a twenty-mile run, decided to prolong the talk.Feeling for subjects, I became tentatively curious concerning politics.
"Cow people," said my friend, "never saveys pol'tics.I wouldn't give a Mexican sheep--which is the thing of lowest valyoo I knows of except Mexicans themse'fs--or the views of any cow-puncher on them questions of state.You can gamble an' make the roof the limit, them opinions, when you-all once gets 'em rounded up, would be shore loodicrous, not to say footile.
"Now, we-all wolves of Wolfville used to let Colonel Sterett do our polit'cal yelpin' for us; sort o' took his word for p'sition an'
stood pat tharon.It's in the Red Light the very evenin' when Texas subdoos that bronco, an' lets the whey outen Jack Moore to the extent of said jug of Valley Tan, that Colonel Sterett goes off at a round road-gait on this yere very topic of pol'tics, an' winds up by tellin' us of his attitood, personal, doorin' the civil war, an' the debt he owes some Gen'ral named Wheeler for savin' of his life.
"'Pol'tics,' remarks Colonel Sterett on that o'casion, re-fillin'
his glass for the severaleth time, 'jest nacherally oozes from a editor, as you-all who reads reg'larly the Coyote b'ars witness;he's saturated with pol'tics same as Huggins is with whiskey.As for myse'f, aside from my vocations of them tripods, pol'tics is inborn in me.I gets 'em from my grandfather, as tall a sport an' as high-rollin' a statesman as ever packs a bowie or wins the beef at a shootin' match in old Kaintucky.Yes, sir,' says the Colonel, an thar's a pensive look in his eyes like he's countin' up that ancestor's merits in his mem'ry; 'pol'tics with me that-away is shore congenital.'
"'Congenital!' says Dan Boggs, an' his tones is a heap satisfact'ry;'an' thar's a word that's good enough for a dog.I reckons I'll tie it down an' brand it into my bunch right yere.'
