CAMP-FIRE TALES
CAMP-FIRE TALES
THE HASH-WRASTLER
Being the story of the life and death of the camp cook, as told by an old cow puncher.
Of course the boss he carries some weight, tho’ the owner’s a figger-head;(Handy fer signin’ checks an’ sich— the Lord in His pity makes some folks rich!Fortune at best’s a skittish bitch as’ll neither be drove er led;An’ “A fool fer luck!” is a standing rule, which I reckon Solomon said.)There’s some as growed on the own home range, an’ some as was vented young;An’ I’ve knowed buckaros as can’t be beat that wrastled the Greaser tongue;An’ there’s now an’ again a tenderfoot the cinches don’t seem to rub;But the man that the outfit hitches to is the man that hustles the grub.It ain’t no cinch in the summer time to tighten a hungry belt,When yer horse is lathered an’ steamin’ hot, an’ ye think yer goin’ to melt;But that old chuck wagon’s a bigger throne than the Czar of Rushy ownsWhen you’ve punched a blizzard from dark to dark, an’ the marrer chilled in yer bones.Yerchapsis froze to the saddle skirts an’ the froth on yer bridle white,An’ the sigh ye let it ain’t no bluff when that camp-fire heaves in sight;An’ ye see him grab up the coffee pot an’ rattle the lid like sin;An’ holler away to beat the band: “Grub pile! Fa-all in! Fa-a-all in!”It’s then that ye know yer friend o’ friends, an’ that wrastler gits his due—In cussin’ an’ sich—fer a haloed saint couldn’t cook to suit the crew.It’s: “Slushy, say, yer off yer base; them biskits is dough inside.Did ye bile the critter that Noah milked, or only her horns an’ hide?”“Stove?” Oh, sure! A hole in the ground on the leeward side of the camp;The end-gate dropped fer a kneadin’ board, an’ some grease an’ rag fer a lamp:But his kittles was slammin’ by three o’clock, along with the bosses snore;A-knowin’ we’d polish his skillets clean an’ yell possessed fer more.There was me an’ Jim an’ Otero’s Kid, I reckon we didn’t makeThat wrastler’s life one shinin’ round of lemon pie an’ cake:But he paid us off as slick an’ clean as ever a debt was paid—An’ I low if our pull was better Beyond he’d git some boot on the trade.The fall rodear was all but done an’ the beef steers waitin’ to ship,When it seemed that the Kid an’ me an’ Jim was booked fer a longer trip.Smallpox—an’ the way them boys lit out was worse’n the worst stampedeOf buffaloed steers on a rainy night the Old Trail ever seed.All but that lank-jawed slinger o’ pots, that blamed hash-wrastlin’ fool;—“I’m runnin’ this camp—you tend to biz;” he says, as stiddy an’ coolAs a chunk of ice on a Christmas tree—an’ I reckon we didn’t dispute;Fer the Kid an’ me was as crazy as loons, an’ Jim on the cut an’ shoot.He tied Jim up with a hackamore, an’ he pulled the three of us through—But I swear when I think o’ the way things went, an’ him, I feel plumb blue;Fer that same disease jist doused his glim as quick as you’d holler “Scat!”Jist cut him out an’ afore we knew he was gone like the drop of a hat.“Th’ boys is comin’,” he says quite wild; “an’ them beans ain’t seasoned right;An’ Jim’ll kick at th’ bread an’ say th’ coffee’s a holy fright.You tell ’em”—he fingered the kiverlid, an’ his words come choked an’ thin—“Reddy jist to th’ minnit, boys—Grub pile! Fa-a-ll in! Fa-a-ll in!”