THE WILD WEST

Evening Post, Volume CVIII, Issue 117, 13 November 1929, Page 16

THE WILD WEST

VAST PLAINS OF TEXAS

MILES OF MONOTONY

COWBOY FARMERS

Pew Englishmen, I think, have not felt at one time or another that they would like to have a look at Texas. There is something about its vast spaces that has always called. And Americans will tell you very proudly that it is "almost as big as Europe." This I think is somewhat of an exaggeration, especially if, for this occasion only, wo decide to admit Russia into the fold, writes Collinson Owen in the "Daily Telegraph." But it covers some 265,000 square miles, which is pretty good for a single State.

Yet my first view of Texas was not thrilling. It is a brown plain, featureless, treeless, monotonous. There is nothing whatever to see except the dry earth and th. sparse, coarse vegetation that thinly covers it. Without being savage it is certainly sullen. lit suggests to me a very large labouring man, with a three days' growth on his chin. These are the plains, the famous Texas plains, where once upon a time, as elsewhere, the vast herds of buffalo roamed. The only change, apart from the railway track, is that now there are no buffalo.

Our train, having proudly begun as Luxurious Limited in California, and dropped to, a passable express in Arizona and New Mexico, now descends to a mere "local," stopping at every station throughout the long trek over Texas. However, the stations are a very long way apart, and each stop is a pleasant relief from monotony. PICTURESQUE TYPES. Muleshoe is one of the earliest of them, named, as I understand, from (or, as America says, for) a ranch of the same name. It is typical of all the rest, .or, at any rate, the smaller ones. A dusty road comes running down to the station—a. small main street set down on the plains, with frame buildings on either side. Just the sort of street down which one would expect cowboys to come riding, "shooting up" the inhabitants— and no doubt not so long ago that sort of thing happened. But, of course, these main streets are nov/ innocent of saloons.

At each, stop the train puts down assorted merchandise and takes something aboard in exchange, though I am vague as to what these commercial transactions are. lam more interested in the people. They are mostly husky men in wide felt hats or quaint peaked caps, extravagantly-coloured woollen jerseys, breeches, and heavy boots. They might be cowboys turned farmers, and give a distinct touch of local colour. Many of them no doubt live miles away from these small towns, in the far hinterland to right and left of the railway. Their rusty and dusty motor-cars stand waiting. Some of the halting places are more pretentious — well-built railway stations, with brick buildings showing in the main street. One such is Slaton, where we stop for lunch. The sparse handful of passengers from our Pullman sits round the glazed lunch counter. There are also various members of the train crew, delightfully arrayed in blue jeans, and with those quaint linen caps that have enormous peaks. One of them is the driver, the engineer. He wears large horn-rimmed glasses, and looks like a college professor out on a hunting trip. A TEXAN MENU. The waitress, a nice plump girl, hands me the menu: Yankee Pot Boast with Noodles. Turkey Croquettes, with Cream Sauce. Chili Con Came, Mexican Stylo. Boston Baked Pork and Beans Individual. Hot Veal Sandwich, Mashed Potatoes. ■ And so on, lots more of it, with "pies" of apple, peach, blackberry, and mince! Not feeling very hungry I temporise, and begin by ordering hard rolls, hoping thereby to escape the soft and sweet one. And the girl, with what I delightedly recognise as the soft Southern drawl, of the romance writers, says: "Hot rolls." The manager of the lunch room happens to be standing behind me. He at once translates: "Hard rolls." Explanations follow. The next discussion goes as follows: Myself: "A bottle of milk." The Girl: "Buttermilk-?" TEe Manager: "Bottlamilk." Thus we get through, with the girl and myself smiling at each other, much as Mademoiselle did to Tommy in the war. As we proceed day after day the small company aboard the Pullman comes to know each other better. There is, for instance, the New Yorker, a retired physician returning from California. He says in Texas what he would.never dare to say In California —he has no use for it (California). New York for him, cold or not. And I find he knows many countries, India among them.

But he is a good American. ' He feels that he must say the right thing about Texas while he is in it. Looking out on. the parched landscape, he says what a wonderful country it is. [The proud Americanism that is in him [urges him forward. Texas will grow 'anything, he says. He recites an interminable list of the things it will grow. There appears to be almost everything except Alpine moss. But still he goes on, determined to squeeze out the last drop of praise for Texas.

"Turkeys." He brisks up as he thinks of this. "Onions — wonderful onions . . . Cabbages." He has finished at last, and relapses into silence. He contemplates for awhile the endless miles of featureless Texas rolling past. Then ho purses his lips, vigorously shakes his head, and bursts out: "But, Gosh! I wouldn't live here, not for a million dollars!"