AMATEUR COWBOY.

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20361, 19 July 1934, Page 4

AMATEUR COWBOY.

Tenderfoot Meets the Real Article. AX ARIZONA HOLIDAY. (By HOWARD VINCENT O'BRIEN). PHOENIX (Arizona), June 22.. The thief purpose of a cattle ranch is raising cattle, and cattle are raised by pursuing them on a horse, from county to county. Cattle raisers practically live in the saddle; and despite the number of comfortable chairs in the house, I havo lived (and died) in the saddle, too I liavo been a great joy to Earle, the foreman. He was shaken from the top of his sombrero to the bottom of his high-heeled boots at the efforts of the visiting journalist to admire Nature while getting in harmony with the vibrations of a chestnut sorrel. I have not tried this since I studied equitation at Saumur, and heard a disgusted French cavalry officer say: “Remembair, you mus* ride ze horse—ze horse mus* not ride you” . . . (as if I had any choice in the matter!). And after ten miles 3 had all the foretaste X needed of tht after life promised evil-doers. It was: also a study in abnormal psychology; the delight of my cattle-raising companions convinces me that they suffer from more than a tough of sadism. A Race of Button-Pushers.

Surviving the day, I sank into a tut of water from a hot mineral spring, and there I lay contemplating the ruin that civilisation had made of me. lam Bure now, that the Indians are right. We cannot survive. In our progress toward specialisation, we have lost contact witl the earth. We can’t build fires, tie knots, cook, shoot or ride. We have become a race of button-pushers, needing help for every essential service; and there is no health in us.

The future is black. To-morrow, Earle will again lead me laughingly to a horse. And after getting my aching legs over his round sides, we shall set forth once more to view the beauties of nature and cattle. Alas, I prefer to view Nature through a windshield, and cattle are only filet mignon to me. The cactus will bite my shins as we climb up and down the steep canyon walls, and when, on the all-too-frequent stretches of wide open country,‘we trot and gallop, I shall suffer a more cruel and unusual bastinado than the slaves of Tripoli had to endure. I cannot understand why they call pe9ple like me “tenderfeet.” My feet are the only parts of my anatomy which do not hurt. Laughing Stock of Nature. As I get farther and farther from the house and deeper in my entrails digs the thought that we have to come back, the pain in my person will be less than the humiliation in my soul. As 1 bounce from pommel to cantle, like a chamois on an alpine crag, and my legs do a duet with the stirrups suggestive of a windmill in a gale, I shall struggle vainly to recapture the picture of myself, strutting importantly in city streets. Nature, in the person of a horse, has not only made me look ridiculous—she has made me feel it. This seems a good time to di=cuss Mexican cooking. There are some 15,000,000 people in Mexico, and at least that many varieties of peppers. Growing pepper seems to be the principal occupation of the country. A Mexican meal consists of assorted peppers, seasoned and garnished with bits of bean, iettuce and chopped meat. 'The novice is tempted to sooth his agony by copious draughts of water. This, however, has the same effect as pouring water on a gasoline fire. It merely spreads the pain. The only relief is in beer or wine. If you take enough alcohol you won’t feel the pepper so keenly. Ether, I think, would be even better.

Some years ago, an analysis was made of “view with alarm” letters to the “London Times.” It was found that Ll.e leading classification was retired majors' of the Indian army. Their bilious outlook on life was the result of living for years on curry. I should think that a Mexican diet would have a similar effect. Traits of the Cowboy.

Above all things, the cowboy is a realist. He wears a broad-brimmed hat to keep out the sun. His vest is a collection of pockets. His “chaps” are a protection against thorns. The high heels of his boots keep his feet from slipping through the stirrups when going down steep slopes. Everything he uses has its practical purpose, and though lie is likely to spend all his money on de luxe sombreros, saddles and bridles, the decoration is always secondary to the function. He is not stylized, and he would l>e uncomfortable in a riding academy. He can d r> miraculous things with a horse, but he knows nothing of gaits and that equestrian entertainment called the “high school.” He will jump, at a pinch, but he much prefers to go ’round. He is, in short, a workman, a cog in the business of producing beef; and he ia quite unconscious of his own pieturesquencss. Above all things, he detests “showing off.” Leaving the Purple Sage. Well, the horses are in their corrals, Slim has gone to town- in a silk shirt’ and his best sombrero; I am soaking in liniment, and the brief interlude on the range has come to an end. I must leave the saddle and take my place again behind the wheel of u motor car. I am more used to that position, and it is easier on the legs. But I am sad at leaving. A dove is burbling in the canyon. The afternoon shadows are lengthening in the valley, and there is a tinge of amethyst in the turquoise of the sky behind the mountains. Far away, two spots of brown move on the russet green of the pasture land—the only sign of life in this peaceful wilderness. Tomorrow I shall be once more in the world of telephones and billboards and windy talk of politics. And though it is all I can do to reach over and tie my shoe laces, though from neck to ankles 1 am one scream of protesting flesh, I wish I could mount my chestnut sorrel once more and go wandering in clean wind and sun through the solitude of the purple sage.— (N.A.N.A.)