curtains across its two booths and added oil shampoos to its repertoire. But Mrs. Bill drew the line—even for Easterners who spent money so wildly—at facials. “If they’re as crazy as that let ’em go to Yellowstone and jump in the mud volcano,” she said.
There were other rebels in Sweetwater too, particularly among the old-timers who liked their cow-towns straight. They didn’t care whether that new movie, which startled them ten years ago, even opened its doors in the evening. They took a very poor view of Milt Jerks (who ran the log-cabin gas-station on the outskirts of town) when he rented a front room on Main Street next his movie-house, filled it with fishing tackle and leather goods, and brought an old plug—fully saddled and bridled—to stand patiently by the hitching-rail at the edge of the board sidewalk. And when Jerks (he was a newcomer from St Louis who had settled in Sweetwater just over fifteen years ago) suggested everyone should dress Western this summer and bought himself a shiny blue tie and an embroidered shirt, feeling ran high in the Purple Rim Bar.
“Hell,” old Cheesit Bridger said, “we was here before he were, and all them damned dudes either. An’ what kind of way does he think we dress now? It sure ain’t Eastern.” His friends around the Purple Rim spat their agreement. Their fathers had fought off Indians, had killed bears and wolves and bad men, had built a little thin line of wooden houses and a schoolroom and the first church, with no help or encouragement from anyone except their wives, who could shoot and saw and nail as good as any man. Then, after the Indian troubles, there had been the war between the big ranchers and the settlers, which had spread from Johnson County into this part of the country. And there was a time when the outlaws from Jackson Hole had tried to run Sweetwater as well. But ever since 1914, when the fighting was taken over by Europe, there had been peace in these parts. The railroad had been kept a good ten miles to the east of Sweetwater, and the State Highway was only reached by a second-class road from Main Street South. As only a few rough roads branched out from Main Street North to ranches and farms hidden in the surrounding hills and valleys, Sweetwater had been spared invasion by busloads of “towrists.” The old-timers considered the building of the airport (a wooden hut on a grass field) as only the Thin End of the Wedge. For dude ranches were increasing each year since the airport had been organised. Although Cheesit and his friends had to grant Milt Jerks that dudes had money in their pockets to match the jingle of their new spurs, all they got out of it was that they’d be wrangling dudes instead of horses. Horses were easier on the nerves. And here was the news that Jim Brent had sold his house to more dudes. Not that they blamed Jim. Everyone knew he had been having a bad time. They blamed the Easterners.
“They ain’t regular dudes,” old Chuck said, suddenly overcome by loyalty to Rest and be Thankful. He had ridden over to Sweetwater to discuss the news with Cheesit Bridger at the Purple Rim. “Seems they’re kind of writer fellers.”
“Dudes with brains,” snorted Cheesit, in disgust. “Maybe long hair too.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s worst of all.”
And the Purple Rim fell into deep gloom, with only the slap of a bottle of Sheridan Export on the long, dark counter to break the silence.
Back on Flying Tail Ranch there was also gloom; but here it was tempered with stoicism. The boys did not like the idea of a lot of strangers wandering around the corral. (Jim might say that the ranch was now separate in every way from the house, but seeing was believing.) Yet they liked the idea of finding themselves without a job even less. Flying Tail was all right. So was Jim Brent.
* * *
Bert said he only hoped them writing fellows didn’t come into his saddle-barn with note-books in their hands and pencils all
There were other rebels in Sweetwater too, particularly among the old-timers who liked their cow-towns straight. They didn’t care whether that new movie, which startled them ten years ago, even opened its doors in the evening. They took a very poor view of Milt Jerks (who ran the log-cabin gas-station on the outskirts of town) when he rented a front room on Main Street next his movie-house, filled it with fishing tackle and leather goods, and brought an old plug—fully saddled and bridled—to stand patiently by the hitching-rail at the edge of the board sidewalk. And when Jerks (he was a newcomer from St Louis who had settled in Sweetwater just over fifteen years ago) suggested everyone should dress Western this summer and bought himself a shiny blue tie and an embroidered shirt, feeling ran high in the Purple Rim Bar.
“Hell,” old Cheesit Bridger said, “we was here before he were, and all them damned dudes either. An’ what kind of way does he think we dress now? It sure ain’t Eastern.” His friends around the Purple Rim spat their agreement. Their fathers had fought off Indians, had killed bears and wolves and bad men, had built a little thin line of wooden houses and a schoolroom and the first church, with no help or encouragement from anyone except their wives, who could shoot and saw and nail as good as any man. Then, after the Indian troubles, there had been the war between the big ranchers and the settlers, which had spread from Johnson County into this part of the country. And there was a time when the outlaws from Jackson Hole had tried to run Sweetwater as well. But ever since 1914, when the fighting was taken over by Europe, there had been peace in these parts. The railroad had been kept a good ten miles to the east of Sweetwater, and the State Highway was only reached by a second-class road from Main Street South. As only a few rough roads branched out from Main Street North to ranches and farms hidden in the surrounding hills and valleys, Sweetwater had been spared invasion by busloads of “towrists.” The old-timers considered the building of the airport (a wooden hut on a grass field) as only the Thin End of the Wedge. For dude ranches were increasing each year since the airport had been organised. Although Cheesit and his friends had to grant Milt Jerks that dudes had money in their pockets to match the jingle of their new spurs, all they got out of it was that they’d be wrangling dudes instead of horses. Horses were easier on the nerves. And here was the news that Jim Brent had sold his house to more dudes. Not that they blamed Jim. Everyone knew he had been having a bad time. They blamed the Easterners.
“They ain’t regular dudes,” old Chuck said, suddenly overcome by loyalty to Rest and be Thankful. He had ridden over to Sweetwater to discuss the news with Cheesit Bridger at the Purple Rim. “Seems they’re kind of writer fellers.”
“Dudes with brains,” snorted Cheesit, in disgust. “Maybe long hair too.” He shook his head slowly. “That’s worst of all.”
And the Purple Rim fell into deep gloom, with only the slap of a bottle of Sheridan Export on the long, dark counter to break the silence.
Back on Flying Tail Ranch there was also gloom; but here it was tempered with stoicism. The boys did not like the idea of a lot of strangers wandering around the corral. (Jim might say that the ranch was now separate in every way from the house, but seeing was believing.) Yet they liked the idea of finding themselves without a job even less. Flying Tail was all right. So was Jim Brent.
* * *
Bert said he only hoped them writing fellows didn’t come into his saddle-barn with note-books in their hands and pencils all
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