PRICE 10 CENTS — only one measly thin dime
PACKET THREE OF POUCH ONE
PUBLISHED FOUR TIMES A YEAR
Only Newspaper in America you can open in the wind
Page 2 D E S E R T R A T S C R A P B O O K Packet Three
Packet Two of Pouch One
Smallest newspaper in the world and the only 5 paged one.
Published at Fort Oliver
1000 Palms, California
4 Times a Year
ON THE NEWS STANDS 10c A COPY
But sometimes they don't have them.
ONE YEAR BY MAIL—4 COPIES 50c
Darned if I am going to the trouble of
mailing it for nothing.
10 Years ....................$5.00
PICTURES ARE BY THE AUTHOR, MANY OF THEM WOODCUTS—I did all but the spelling.
Most of this material, pictures and writing is copyrighted.
Permission to reprint from this newspaper is granted providing you mention the Editor, who is the publisher, once every inch of printed matter and the name of the paper every 1½ inch and end by telling the world they can get a copy by sending a thin dime to the Desert Trader at 1000 Palms, California.
This issue No. 1200 printed—don't worry, I can use them for wrapping paper.
You will find this paper better than others for wrapping—It's Tough.
And the only newspaper in America you can open in the wind.
For such a small paper I give you a generous amount of typographical errors.
A newspaper is no better than the paper it's printed on.
FROM THE WESTERN PRESS
The glass-packed pork and beans are the best. The piece of pork that isn't there is shown up in clearer detail.
"Alaska, now being pushed for admittance as the fortyninth state, is twice the size of Texas." We await, with bated breath, the first sign of an inferioriy complex in Texas.
REDLANDS DAILY FACTS
The new slogan that the publicity committee of the Bisbee Chamber of Commerce invented is really interesting. It is, "Air conditioned by Nature."
In this high altitude a good way to prevent nose bleed is to keep the old schnozzle out of other people's business.
BREWERY GULCH GAZETTE
The Navaho Indians frequently substitute phonograph record for jet and teeth from old combs for coral in their "made to sell" inlay work. Don't turn down a fine piece because of the substitution, however. It is none-the-less a phase in Indian art work. Well executed peices are not easy to get.
The "ruby" red arrow points frequently offered for sale in the Southwest are often made from the bulls-eyes out of railroad signals. It used to cost the railraod companies thousands of dollars a year to replace lenses pilfered by Indian craftsmen. Red glass arrow points have been found in Indian graves in Arizona.
TRADE WINDS — BEAUMONT, CALIF.
A keen-eyed mountaineer led his overgrown son into a country shcoolhouse. "This here boy's arter larnin'," he announced. "What's yer bill o' fare?"
"My department, sir," replied the professor, "consists of arithmetic, algebra, geometry and trigonometry."
"That'll do," interrupted the old man, "load him up with trigonometry; he's the only poor shot in the family."
ROOTS and HORNS — TUCSON, ARIZONA
WOULD ABANDON GHOST RAILROADS . . .
TONOPAH—When the army asked for the return of the diesel locomotive leased to the Tonopah and Goldfield railroad for its 97-mile line, the company's attorney announced that freight service on the line would be discontinued and the road abandoned. Protests from shippers affected brought promises from Senators McCarran and Bunker that they would try to secure relief through federal channels. This is the second time in three years the Tonopah and Goldfield company has asked the Interstate Commerce commission for permission to abandon its trackage. On August 20 the Nevada Copper Belt asked permission to abandon its line between Hudson and Wabuska. If both these requests are granted only two of the mining-days short lines will remain in operation, the Nevada Southern between Ely and Cobre, and the Virginia and Truckee running between Reno and Carson.
DESERT MAGAZINE — EL CENTRO, CALIF.
GOLD HILLS WAS EARLY CHINESE NAME FOR S. F.
San Francisco — The first number of a Chinese newspaper called "The Gold Hill News," appeared April 29th, 1854. It was a small sheet of four pages, printed wholly in Chinese characters. "Gold Hills" is the Chinese name for San Francisco. There was at that time English, French, German, Spanish and
Continued on Page 4, where it will be too wide but we are using it just the same.
City folks are same as sheep, looking for excitement in huddles. Sheep are the only animals that don't go away by themselves and enjoy being alone. The city's just a glorified Sheep corral anyway people come out here in the desert, then rush miles to a telephone just to get into contact with someone and say nothing, just talk, and talk. They just ain't able to keep themselves from bein' lonesome, have no means of entertaining themselves; I am sorry for them in their old age when they can't find a fourth at bridge.
If they would only get to be Rock-Hounds or take to some desert hobby — like gathering Gila monsters, or something.
Now there's Ernest Hall (brother of Dick Wick Hall, famed desert humorist) Ernest is at Salome and he's got the finest collection of wood-pecker holes in the world. He gets them from the Giant Sahuroru Cactus
—His hobby got so important he was sent for by that Hobby Lobby radio outfit, and got a ride way back to New York just to tell them about wood-pecker holes. My advice is, get yourself a hobby, if you are staying, and learn to be a honest to gosh Desert Rat.
I am trying to get a fire proof asbestos paper for the next packet — you may not put these packets away for Junior, but I am sure printing them on tough paper so's they might be kick-around for posterity. If you keep them, make sure the pack rats can't get'em.
Anybody with a newspaper selling at 50c a year, gets a lot of surprise mail; quarters stuck to cardboard with cellulose, taped dimes, stamps, Po. O. money orders for 50c, etc.—
The best way is to send a one dollar bill, sending the Scrap Book to your best friend for a year and getting for a year yourself.
(Signed) The Distributor
Packet Three D E S E R T R A T S C R A P B O O K Page 3
Editor's Note— This is the yarn that John Hilton in Desert Magazine (August 1946), proved could be true (that is, most of it), John and Randall Henderson gave me the title of the Champion Liar of the Colorado Desert in the edition, of which I am very proud.
But John's story is worth reading. If you don't get Desert Magazine, go to your public library and read it. John is the fines writer in all the Deserts and Desert Magazine is the desert dwellers bible.
The day after Liminatin' Lem's shack burned down Petrified Pete was sayin' that most folks knows 'dobe is the desert buildin' material, and if you ain't got sense enough to use it, so's to have a fire-proof house, you ought to get burned out.
Now that sounds right funny comin' from Pete, who lives at the timber line and after bein' burned out of log cabins twice went and built hiself a third one.
"In your case," says I, "you must like fires."
"No sir" says Pete, thumpin' his peg leg like he does when he wants to be emphatic. "I'm dead agin 'em. But I ain't most folks." Then he clumps over to the stove and pulls the chair around.
Now to me that don't make sense, but I can see he's nearly bustin' with a yarn, and only wants a little fine-pannin' to bring it out.
The mail wasn't due in for a spell so I figures there's plenty of time to get the story out of him before any more customers blow in.
I started to burn a few words under him, like you do greasewood to start an ornery burro.
"And if there ever comes a fire at night you'll be in a bad way," says I, thinkin' to myself about his peg leg standin' in the corner, but not darin' to let on. And thinkin' of that reminded me that the last time he come into the store he was kinda draggin' that leg, like he was breakin' in a new one.
"Believe it or not, this time, logs or no logs, I got a fireproof cabin" says Pete. "And it's by an act of Providence I got it."
He hitched his torusers like he always does when he's finally settlin' for a story, so I pulled out the stool from under the counter and set alonside the cash register. And here's Petes's act of Providence tale:
He was workin' a six-month shift in his tunnel on the side of Mt. Cateye last fall and the season was about closin' in on him when he noticed his peg leg is gettin' heavy. He thinks it's water soaked 'cause it's wetter'n a spring wash in the shaft, but careful observation shows him that runnin' along the grain, parts of the leg is turned to stone.
It don't take long 'fore the whole thing's hard as flint, like it's been layin' underground for a century or two. Knowin' that the water up to Cateye was pretty near straight silica, he figures it's petrifyin' power must be something well over a hundred per cent and is responsible for the damage done to his leg.
Seems pretty hard to believe, but there was the evidence. Why, he'd worn himself thin draggin' around that fossil limb of his. He made a new peg leg, settin' the petrified one over the fireplace, hopin' someone would come along so's he could tell 'em about it.
He got to wonderin' why such high-powered silica water couldn't be put to some practical use, and hit on the idea of fire-proofin' things. Why not have a stone house 'stead of a cabin that could burn again? There she sat, just below the tunnel — it was right easy to shoot the water through a hollow log to spray the place night and day; Well he rigged things up and had the silica rainin' about three months and can see it's bitin' in all right when one day the forest ranger comes along. He's the first person Pete's seen since the discovery, and natural-like, Pete brags about it. Of course, the ranger thinks he's crazy, but don't object none, because he figures the place is about fire-proof anyway with a waterfall hittin' it twenty-four hours a day.
The ranger stays for dinner, looks at the leg, says it's a good job an' musta taken a long time to chisel, and suggests Pete give it to me to go along with them historical relics I got down at the store.
Then Pete gets up from the table to fetch some of the home-brewed dill pickles he keeps for company and the ranger smiles, because he's had some before. Not forseein' things, Pete hands the jar to him to help himself, and right there the ranger started to believe Pete's story, for at the first bite he busted three teeth.
Pete says he's got a barrel of them green pickles petrifyin' and when they're done he's goin' to ship them to China and sell 'em for jade.
POCO LOCO LOCALS
This summer Harry Marrell of Rancho Vaquero, got so mad at the heat he turned his thermometer's face to the wall.
Lynn Lewis, of Indian Wells, has an Indian pot that is 3,026 years old. Twenty-six years ago Fred Harvey, and expert on those things, claimed it was 3,000 years old.
Paul Wilhelm of 1000 Palms, a colossal palm seed planter, also finds time to unearth the mysteries of the Indians of 1000 Palms Canyon. Rumor has it that he has recently unearthed a complete set of petrified Indian smoke signals.
Ted Hutchinson, the plant wizard of Rancho Mirage, has done the impossible, raising desert holly and smoke trees from seed in cans. After visiting him seven times, I believe it!
"Desert Steve Ragsdale" says, "even the woodpecker owes it's success to the fact that he uses his head."
From the sophisticated editor, Phat Graettinger of the Palm Springs swank press, The Desert Sun, comes the unexpected: how to get those pesky, invisible cactus stickers out of your hide. Slap on some adhesive plaster, then jerk it off quick — takes the stickers with it!
C. Roy Hunter, "Father Neptune" of Salton Sea boasts that there is a widow at his Royal Date Gardens who can make a sale providing the tourist slows down to 60 miles an hour, or gets a few inches over the white line. — (She sure sells a lot of these Desert Rat Scrap Books.)
YUMA IS AN
The drunkard was in a friendly mood, self-confident, and happy. I have always liked to talk to the drunkard. There was never a trace of anything disagreeable except the rank smell of cheap whiskey.
"Why do you drink?" I asked. "Why do you drink so much and so often?"
"I drink because when I drink I am not self-conscious; without drink I am bashful, timid, afraid and unhappy. Drink seems to give color, romance and excitement in those I meet, seems to give me brilliant words and thoughts so that I can match wits with all. Of course it don't, but when I am drinking I think it does." "But," I asked, "hasn't drinking robbed you of much?"
"Yes, more than you think" the drunkard answered. "Oh, why talk about it, buy me a drink and let's talk about the old West like we did last time I saw you — of Calamity Jane, Cattle Kate, Lola Montez of those old time western gals."
We talked; it was hours later that the drunkard told me how drink had taken two children and had wrecked her three marriages, "but," she said, as I left her with a full glass in her hand, "We're Westerners ain't we, we can take it, can't we; we keep our chin up, don't we; here's to you old timer."
"So many people in keeping their — chin up — raise it to just a convenient drinking angle."
Dry Camp Blackie is fed up with radios! The screaming comedians get his goat; says he listened to a preacher last Sunday that was almost as bad. He was talking like he thought God was a hundred and fifty miles away.
Calico Kate is a mother for the 124th time . . . right, 9 and 115 makes 124 . . . I have learned a lot from Calico Kate, but counting is not part of what she's taught me, as she can't count. She made ten trips this morning to move nine kittens from the place I thought best for them. She might not know figures but she is right again, for last spring when she had eight kittens and shortly after their birth went strolling, she carried back a baby rabbit which was nursing along with the kittens. A bullsnake siezed the rabbit and Calico Kate fought to rescue her foster child, but the snake broke away and escaped under the porch with the cottontail. (The moving's so that can't happen again.)
Calico Kate is just a plain, alley variety of cat—Calico Tom, she was as a kitten, then she became a mother and we called her Kate; today her descendants include kittens, grand-kittens, great great grandkittens, and number into the thousands.
Calico Kate is a great teacher. She has spent her life on this desert ranch and is now thirteen years old. (One year for a cat is equal to five human years according to veterinarians) so she has sixty-five-year-old thinking equipment and we're pals. As she and I find some of her youngsters are way out here in the Borego Desert, a long way from folks, we kind of make a study of cats and humans and think as how one can teach the other things worth-while.
Some of this thinking has convinced me that cats don't have nine lives, and don't suck babies' breath, and that cats don't hypnotize birds, that tailless cats are not offspring of cats and rabbits. We know that dogs wag their tails when happy . . . cats when angry! . . . that the Chinese can tell time fairly accurately by looking at a cat's eyes, the pupils become more perpendicular as noon approaches and dilating gradually as afternoon wears on.
Kats's fan mail is on a par with some movie stars', of course Kate doesn't only make friends with her public, but she — or we — gradually present this public with a great great grandkitten, and it's their masters that keep up this fan mail.
Yesterday a brief postal card from a forest ranger friend:
"Tell Kate, catgut comes from goats, not cats.
Signed, Oh Fiddlestrings"
Here's one from Beaumont, California:
"Please tell Kate another Borego Calico has won fame and is heralded as one of the smartest mouse-catching cats in the West. Calico Kate IV would beg for a piece of cheese daily. One day I followed her. She made for the woodshed, place the cheese in front of a hole in the wall and began blowing her warm breath upon it. Presently a mouse came out, his nose quivering ecstatically at the aroma. Kate IV promptly pounced upon the mouse and made short work of it."
This one is from Mojave, California:
"Please tell Calico Kate that a prospector near here had to build a rig to get down into his well, beause his Calico cat (kitten of Kate III), was on a ledge thirty feet below. He discovered that the ledge showed good color, and he's now mining his well, and getting his water from the shaft of his mine."
It's been my pleasure to read these many letters to Kate, as she sat on my chest purring. The mail brings lots of nice bits of news of her great family and most of the news just backs up what Kate and I have figured out. But that old idea about a black cat crossing your path being bad luck—we had talked that over many a time, and thought we had it settled, when today we read this in the paper:
PROOF AT LAST
"As a black cat tried to cross his path, an old timer at Flagstaff, Arizona, made a wild kick
to thwart the cat's ill-omened progress, and he then dropped dead from heart failure."
Well, that upsets the apple cart. I guess Kate and I will just have to talk this over some more.
This is Lesson No. 3
I once built a house with Daily Dozens — 12 'Dobe bricks made before breakfast each day, gave me a house to live in.
Many an old timer has told me he is 75 years young because of the many years he has chopped the day's supply of wood before breakfast. So if you stand up before the mirror and waste you daily dozen "you're wasting it twice"—better start a 'Dobe house.
In lesson No. 1 we learned that a 'dobe house is fireproof, if built right, and one story high; earthquake proof, dust proof, sound proof, heat and cold proof, rat and termit proof, oh and yes, bullet proof and almost proof against bad design, due to the thickness of its walls and damned if they don't take on more character as they age. Also that if Mexicans sing as they make adobe bricks for a home the home will always be a happy one.
In lesson No. 2 we learned that nine out of ten 'dobe houses are never completed, and this is why — building out of this free building material is not only hard work, but lots of hard work — you must move tons and tons. So — If you want an adobe house lets GET GOING, make a frame 12 inches by 18 inches out of 1 in. x 4 in. stuff, — get your 1/3 clay and 2/3 gravel, — mix it up good and stuff, — *pat it down, — pull the frame up, — wash it with muddy water, — fill again and again and again, — see you got 4 already, — next lesson I will tell you where to pile them.
*you are Mr. Dobe Patter.
Desert Steve Ragsdale, back in the horse and buggy days, pulled into Desert Center, and has maintained an establishment as permanent and solid as the peak of Santa Rosa Mountain. (Which he also owns.) Today Desert Center is rightfully being considered for the county seat of the future Desert County. Steve didn't ask for this but Desert Center is the center.
The following is from my book, 99 DAYS IN THE DESERT.
50 miles west of Blythe
50 miles east of Indio
Main street 100 miles long.
Copy of a sign here that I am glad to print in this column.
I will pay One Hundred ($100.00) reward for conclusive proof of deliberate torture, crushing or killing of a Desert Tortoise within a radius of 100 miles of Desert Center, California, if accompanied by indisputable proof of the identity of the guilty party, provided he is of legal age.
(Signed) Desert Steve Ragsdale
Steve says the Desert Tortoise is not only the most interesting, but the most harmless and therfore endowed with the greatest wisdom of all God's creatures, Says if man would pattern after the Tortoise we'd have no more murderous wars.
The Joshua Trees due to their grotesque bent shape, have long been referred to as the "praying trees."
PAGE 4 THE ESCUTCHEON OF FORT OLIVER Packet No. 2
THIS PAGE IS DEDICATED TO THE WORLD'S GREATEST OPTIMIST
THE DESERT PROSPECTOR
DESERT RAT Scrap Book
THE PEAK OF SAINT HYACINTH
By TOM HUGHES
That grey monument against the sky — you see it from almost any point in the Southern California deserts. Helmsmen on Spanish ships used to set fair-weather course by it. For the San Gabriel padres it marked the east frontier of their domain, and to John Steven McGoarty's enraptured eye it was "The kingly outpost of the royal hills."
Growing ever more awesome as you near it, by the time you have entered the San Gorgonia pass it has taken on an aspect fairly atartling. Along the highway at some point near the lower end of the pass you simply must stop, and look, and fill yourself with looking, for you are face to face with the highest rock wall in the nation.
Ah, yes, you may have seen dizzying heights in other places. Colorado has its Maroons and its Wild Gardens, Wyoming has its Tetons, Washington has its Skuksan, Texas has its Signal Peak, Utah has its Navajo Mountain; but they all dwindle in comparison with the sheared-off and gouged-out face of San Jacinto.
Measured in terms of mountain-building time, this rock wall is in the first flush of youth. The utter grimness that all but overpowers the climber who dares to invade its secret places is by the magic of distance transformed into beauty for the worshipper below. Its contours are etched with mysterious shadows, and tracings of last year's snow hang in filigree along the upper reaches. Of course you will get out your kodak and take a picture, little realizing that the precipice is the despair of expert cameramen. That's because the vertical angle is so great. The truth is, no wall in the Grand Canyon is much more than half as high. Pikes Peak wouldn't fill that vast uplifted granite bowl. If you have visited Glacier Park, you may recall how from The Narrows at St. Mary Lake you gaze aloft to Red Eagle Mountain on your left and Going-to-the-Sun Mountain, dead ahead. Now the one could be piled on top of the other and still wouldn't show above San Jacinto's cornice.
If you look closer you may make out a silver thread dangling from near the summit. That is Snow Creek, which geographers have called the swiftest stream in North America. It is virtually one continuous cataract, with much of its downward flight lying in perpetual shadow.
From your car window you are beholding still another spectacle unmatched in our land. The escarpment soars through six life zones. The sand washes are Lower Sonoran, with brush rats and cactus. The nearer foothills show Upper Sonoran, supporting coyote and chemisal. Where the precipice begins to really steepen is Transition, with its mule deer and pines. Next above lies tha Canadian, where chickadees hop about in the brush chinquapin. Still farther up is the Hudsonian, and perhaps a bighorn sheep is peering down from beside a clump of Alpine sorrel. At the very top, in the Arctic-Alpine belt, there may live no native beast or bird, but wind-flattened limber pines cling prostrate to the rocks.
Yes, in one upward sweep of the eye you are viewing a forshortened landscape of 3,000 horizontal miles—from Mexico's Candle of Our Lord to Alaska's brave little buttercup.
THE TAIL OF OLD FRIENDSHIP
Ever live alone with a dog? If you have you will sure agree with me that Charles M. Russell's dog story is the greatest dog story ever told.
From The Recently Republished Charles M. Russell Book
Of the three best known of our modern-day American story tellers, Charles Russell, Irvin Cobb and Will Rogers, it was my good fortune to have heard the latter two. If one is to believe first-hand listener reports, Charles Russell was the equal, if not the superior member, of the triumvirate. Will Rogers, great friend that he was of the Montana genius, insisted that "I always did say that you could tell a story better than any man that ever lived." Will Crawford, himself an artist-humorist of the old LIFE and JUDGE days, declared that the story-telling marathon at Charlie's birthday party in New York in 1904 (the story telling by Will Rogers and Charlie Russell lasted all night) ended in a dead heat. At that time Will Rogers was telling'em on the stage with the Follies and Russell was trying to make a living an an artist and illustrator.
Cobb was a friend of the artist in the late years of Russell's life, and what a "pair to draw to" those two must have been!
In 1921 the first published booklet of Russell's salty cowboy stories, illustrated by the artist, was published by the local press of his home town, Great Falls, Montana. It was titled "Rawhide Rawlins Stories". In 1925 this was followed by another booklet of the same calibre which he named simply "More Rawhides." It is theis rare little booklet that we now take pride in republishing. The many admirers of the greatest of all Western Artists may now enjoy another of his varied talents.
Signed W.E. Britzman
By CHARLES M. RUSSELL
"I knowed a fellow one time that was called 'Dog Eatin' Jack. I never knowed how he got his name that's hung to him, till I camp with him. This old boy is a prospector and goes gopherin' round the hills, hopin' he'll find something.
"I'm huntin' hosses one spring and ain't found nothing but tracks. I'm up on the Lodgepole in the foothills; it's sundown and my hoss has went lame. We're limping along slow when I sight a couple of hobbled cayuses in a beaver meadow. One of these hosses is wearing a Diamond G iron, the other a quarter circle block hoss. They're both old cow ponies. I soon locate their owner's camp — it's a lean-to in the edge of the timber. While I'm lookin' over the layout, here comes the owner. It's the Dog Eater. After we shake hands I unsaddle and stake out my tired hoss. When we're filled up with the best he's got (which is beans, bacon and frying pan bread, which is good filling for hungry men), we're sittin' smokin' and it's then I ask him if he ever lived with Injuns.
"You're thinkin'' says he, 'about my name. It does sound like Injun, but they don't hang it on me. It happens about ten winters ago. I'm way back in the diamond range; I've throwed my hosses about ten mile out in the foothills, where there's good feed and less snow. I build a lean-to, a good one, and me and my dog settles down. There's some beaver here and I got a line of traps and figger on winterin' here. Ain't got much grub but there's lots of game in the hills and my old needle gun will get what the traps won't.
"'Snow comes early and lots of it. About three days after the storm I step on a loose boulder and sprain my ankle. This puts me plumb out; I can't more than keep my fire alive. All the time I'm running short of grub. I eat a couple of skinned beaver. I'd throwed away one day. My old dog brings in a snowshoe rabbit to camp and maybe you don't think he's welcome. I cut in two with him but, manlike, I give him the front end. That's the last we got.
"'Old Friendship (that's the dog's name) goes out every day but he don't get nothing and I know he ain't cheating—he's too holler in the flanks. After about four days of living on thoughts, Friendship starts watchin' like he's afraid. He thinks maybe I'll put him in the pot but he sizes me up wrong. If I'd do that, I hope I choke to death.
"'The sixth day I'm sizin' him up.; He's laying near the fire. He's a hound with a long meaty tail. Says I to myself, "Oxtail soup! What's the matter with dog tail?" He don't use it for nothing but sign talk but it's like cutting the hand off a dummy.' But the eigth day, with hunger and pain in my ankle, I plumb locoed and I can't get that dog's tail out of my mind. So, a little before noon, I slip up on him while he's sleeping, with the ax. In a second it's all over. Friendship goes yelpin' into the woods and I am sobbin' like a kid, with his tail in my hand. The water is already boiling in the pot an' as soon as I singe the hair off it's in the pot. I turned a couple of flour sacks inside out and dropped them in and there's enough flour to thicken the soup. It's about dark. I fill up and if it weren't for thinkin', it would have been good. I could have eat it all but I held out over half for Friendship, in case he came back.
"'It must be midnight when he pushes into the blankets with me. I take him in my arms. He's as cold as a dead snake and while I'm holdin' him tight, I'm crying like a baby. After he warms up a little, I get up and throw some wood on the fire and call Friendship to the pot. He eats every bit of it. He don't seem to recognize it. If he does, being a dog, he forgives.
"'We go back to the blankets. It's just breaking day when he slides out, whinin' and sniffin' the air with his ears cocked and his bloody stump wobblin'. I look the way he's pointin' and not twenty-five yards from the lean-to stands a big elk. There's a fine snow fallin'; the wind's right with us. I ain't a second gettin' my old needle gun but I'm playin' safe—I'm coming injun on him. I use my ram rod for a rest. When the old needle speaks, the bull turns over—his neck's broken. 'Tain't long till we both get to the bull and we're both eatin' raw, warm liver. I've seen Injuns do this but I never thought I was that much wolf, but it was sure good that morning.
"'He's a big seven-point bull—old and pretty tough, but me and Friendship was looking for quantity not quality and we got it. That meat lasted till we got out.'
"'What became of Friendship?' says I.
"'He died two years ago,' says Jack. 'But he died fat.'"
FRANK M. KING, Associate Editor
Western Livestock Journal Says—
Charles M. Russell was not only the greatest painter of western scenes of all time, but he was a humorist of big proportions and wrote some books, the reading of which will scare dull care into the brush country. I have just finished two of them books, titled, "RAWHIDE RAWLINGS STORIES" and "MORE RAWHIDES," both copiously illustrated with Russell's drawings. Trails End Publishing Co., Inc., H.E. Britzman, president, has secured the copyrights to these books and has just published a lot of them for the benefit of the reading public and for Charley Russell fans. The price of the books are $2.50 each, or $5.00 for the pair, but if you all will address H.E. Britzman, president of Trailos End Publishing Co., Inc., 725 Michigan Boulevard, Pasadena 10, Calif. you can get the books and all the information you need. Even at this price of these books, I wouldn't take double that for the two books that I have. Charley Russell was an actor, as well as a great story teller, and he loved to hear funny stories as well as to tell 'em. Charley was also a great historian, and he put the old West on canvas in such a manner that it may be hung up on walls for all to view at all times. There are 40 of Russell's drawings in one of these books and 34 in the other, 74 drawings in all, that you cannot secure in any other way, even if you pay big money. They just can't be had. These drawings are worth many times the price of the two books no matter what they cost and I know the price is reasonable.
THE ART EDITOR Says—
Nowadays in art if you can tell what it is, it's a sign not modern art.
For hundreds of years artists have gazed into mirrors and turned out great self portraits; if you have seen better portraits it does not mean the artist was a better artist or a handsomer man; maybe he just happened to have a better looking glass to work with.
THE ART EDITOR
I asked a very old whiskered prospector how he accounted for his longevity and he says, "I never shave, just let'em grow."
Arizona highway sign: When this sign is under water, the road is impassible.
The only white man who learned to beat the Apaches at their own game.
It is not true that the most interesting Westerners have gone West. The most interesting man who ever lived in the West and knew the West better than any other white man is still living—out Fillmore way—and is none other than Maj. Frederick Russell Burnham.
We hear so much of Maj. Burnham's exploits as a scout for the British army under Cecil Rhodes in the Boer War that we forget his skill and bravery as a scout against our own Sioux and Apaches.
First Editions of his book "Scouting on Two Continents is a Valuable book today.
Wasps will go out of their way to atack only when their homes are molested.
"Weepah Stampede" was started by finding ore in a badger hole.
There is no scientific proof, whatever to support a single one of the popular beliefed and widely circulated snake stories. Many snake stories undoubtedly came out of bottles.
Some people say young snakes crawl into their mothers mouth, however, no baby snake ever runs down it's mothers's throat. With the exception of rattlesnakes, virtually all reptiles lay eggs. Young snakes seen with adults are more than likely not related. At the approach of a human being the little snake may appear to run into the larger snakes mouth, but a baby snake has a way of disappearing into the smallest of hiding places.
In his battle for existance among creatures of his own size the rattlesnake uses a powerful "Haymaker" blow rather than his lethat fangs.
For new subscribers only; I have a few hundred copies of packet 1 and packet 2. I will send you 1 and 2; skip 3 that you have in your hand and send you the next 6 all for one dollar— 100 years for $50.00
HERE COMES JOHN HILTON AGAIN
THERE AIN'T NO SILENCE ON THE DESERT
Now they aint no silence on this here desert nor none other I ever heard an its never deserted nor lonesome. Its jest that the noises are smaller here. Anybody that ever slept out alone on the desert knows that aside from the "lonely howl of a mournful coyote" (Anybody knows coyote are happy when they holler) an the soft whisperin of the gentle desert breeze, there is a good many other noises that after a week or so begin to be so important to a feller as to almost sound like a racket.
I play a game with the desert tryin to figure out where all the noises come from an it never gits tiresome. For instance there's that funny sound the grub worms make in the mequite bark in the spring. Stop under any mesquite tree, where they ain't no street cars passin, an stand still fer a minute anybody can hear it! Then there's the noise made when seed pots split open on the desert primroses. Makes a feller almost jump out of bed. An the tiny rustlin noises of desert mice an the cheepin noises they make callin one another. Theres no end to em. Why one night a noise kept a botherin me till I had to git up out of bed an investigate. It was one of them stink bugs stompin around in the dark. I had to carry him a quarter of a mile an turn him loose sos I could sleep.
DESERT RAT TEN COMMENDENTS
BY THE EDITOR
Thou shalt love the DESERT, but not lose patience with those who say it's bleak and ornery (even when the wind is blowing).
Thou shalt speak of the DESERT with great reverence, and lie about it with great showmanship, adding zest to Tall Tales and Legends.
Thou shalt not admit other DESERTS have more color than the one on which you have staked your claim.
Thou shalt on the Sabbath look to the Mountain Peaks so's to know better your whereabouts, so's you can help others to know the DESERT, dotting on the map the places where you have camped.
Honor the Pioneers, Explorers and the Desert Rats who found and marked the water holes . . . they tell you about the next water hole and try to help you.
Thou shalt not shoot the Antelope-Chipmunk, Kangaroo Rat or other harmless Desert friends. (Keep your shot for a smake.)
Thou shalt not adulterate the water holes no leave the campsite messed up. Be sure to take 10 gallons of water with you. Don't have to ask the other fellow on the road for a quart, but be able to help the tenderfoot by giving him some water.
Thou shalt not steal (from the prospector's shack), nor forget to fill the wood box and water pail.
Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor; you know the minin laws; you know the whereabouts of his monuments.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's sleeping bag, his gun, nor the contents of his canteen.
INJUN STUFF BY BEN BEAN
This Hopi village of Oraibi is the oldest continuously inhabited town in the United States. Many of its houses had air cooling long before Columbus discovered America. The squaw hung a wet blanket over the entrance, the circulating air went through the blanket and out a hole in the ceiling. (This is Lesson No. 1 in Air Conditioning Schools.)
Hopi towns were located on the mesas for protection from Navajos and Apaches who roamed the plains. That danger passed years ago, but the Hopis refuse to desert the lofty homes of their fathers and today, as in ancient times, every drop of water for all purposes is carried by the women up the cliffs.
Women do most of the work here in Hopi land. They do the household work, carry water, make pottery, carry water, make baskets, carry water, have babies, carry water, weave, carry water, care for the babies, and for a change carry wood.
Western Square Dances
Boy Howdy! Here it is. Large 125-page book; 30 complete calls, 35 illustrations. Fun, Frolic and entertainment from Park Avenue to Salton Sea. Don't wait any longer, folks. Send today!
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THE RUMPUD CO.
P.O. Box 1857 Denver 1, Colo.
LIVING FIRE FROZEN IN ROCK
PRECIOUS FIRE OPALS
Cut stones $6.00, $12.00, $18.00 up and down.
Rough specimens for collections, $1.20, $2.40, $3.60 more or less.
Mixed assortments for $15.00, $25.00, $35.00. How much have you?
Fluorescent Nevada, Moss or Tiger Opal $5.00 per pound, postpaid.
When in Nevada be sure to meet Wild $Dollar $Bill. His spot is The Hurry Back Trading Post, Goldfield, Nevada. Send your autographed Dollar Bill for his collection with snapshot.
$5.00 for 36 Minerals; Cabachons $1.00 each; Turquoise $2.40 ounce.
A 800 to 1000 pound
found in Eastern Oregon
shortly after its fall.
For sale by its owner
J. A. ELLIOTT
Box 854, Burns, Oregon
We can supply you with ready-cut pine blanks, with complete
step-by-step instructions for finishing 50 different subjects.
It's easy and fun!
For further information write to:
1402 Charles St., LaCrosse, Wisc.
West Texas Minerals GEM AGATES
Fluorescents, Rare Minerals, Superb Crystals, Mail Order
Frank Duncan & Daughter
Box 63, Telinqua, Texas
FROM THE WESTERN PRESS
Chinese Journals published in San Francisco.
THE PONY EXPRESS – PLACERVILLE CAL.
THIS WORD "MOJAVE": J OR H?
Much confusion and arguement have arisen from the two spellings of the word "Mojave." A ruling of the Geographical Board in Washington, D.C. however a few years ago simplified the problem someshat. If you are in California, the name of the river, the city and the desert should be spelled with a "j": Mojave. If, on the other hand, you happen to be in Arizona, then you must spell the name of the county and the Indian tribe with an "h": Mohave. Dr. A.L. Kroeber of the University of California, noted anthropologist, claims that only the "h" spelling should exist, since the word is an Indian one, not Spanish, and was only transliterated by the early Spanish, who gave all "h" sounds a spelling of "j". The very same problem arose with the greatest Indian tribe of Northern Arizona: should it be Navaho or Navajo?
The word Mojave (or Mohave) itself is of Indian origin and is that tribe's name for "three mountains," referring to three distinctive landmarks near the present city of Needles, whose name also refers to this geological oddity.
YUCCA VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
TOMBSTONE'S BOOT HILL HAS
NEW GRAVE MARKER
Boot Hill Graveyard, the last resting place of some 300 pioneers of Tombstone, "The Town Too Tough To Die" now has 50 permanent and anchored markers erected over the graves. Vandals who in the past robbed the cemetery of the markers or defaced them will have a tough time pulling the new ones out of their concrete bases.
New markers noticed were those over the graves of Billy Clanton and the McLowery brothers who were killed by the Earps in the epic OK corral gunfight. The grave of Marshall White killed by Curley Bill also has a new marker, along side of these men "killed with their boots on" lie the refined and peaceful people of the colorful old mining camp.
THE TUSCON NIGHTINGALE
THE HOTTEST PLACE ON EARTH
The hottest region, in general, is the southeastern part of Persia, where it borders on the Gulf. For 40 consecutive days in July and August the temperature has been known not to fall lower than 100 degrees. A sheltered thermometer at Greenland ranch in Death Valley, California on July 10, 1913 reached 134.1 degrees Fahrenheit. Azizia in Italian Tripoli in 1925 reached 135.4 degrees.
Russ Nicoll, (VALERIE JEAN DATE SHOP), is a true Arab prince of the date industry. Nicoll, who flies on the magic carpet, has given more showmanship (definition of showmanship: knowledge, appeal, energetic effort and good taste) to the date industry than any one.
The, Saturday Evening Post and the Reader's Digest, have told the people of Russ Nicoll (they're a couple of good publications too) but coming back to the Arabian magic of his showmanship I wish I had him here as I ponder on the design of the Date Festival entrance spread out on the drafting board here in the tranquil atmosphere of old Fort Oliver. However, I promise you I shall show it to him before any of the mud bricks are laid in place.
250 FEET BELOW SEA LEVEL
Desert and Seashore Homesights
Swimming and Boating
Cocktails at the Wheelhouse Bar
9½ Miles East of Mecca, Calif.
Fresh from the heart of the Mojave
LARGE BUNDLE $1.00
GRAIL FULLER RANCH
Box 26 Dagget, Calif.
Desert Art, Antiques, Pets, Curios
Ready to plant at your HOME IN THE SUN
Desert Holly Smoke Tree
Rooted plants of these and other desert
trees and shrubs now available at
RANCHO MIRAGE NURSERY
Between Palm Springs and Indio on Rancho
Mirage Plaza, beside the PALO VERDE
Packet 3 D E S E R T R A T S C R A P B O O K Page 5
STARTLING FACTS ABOUT DATES
The date is sacred to all Mohammedans, for one reason, it was with the date Eve tempted Adam. The date is the oldest fruit known to man. The Queen of Sheba's dates were the same as yours today — one press agent has (proven?) that Cleopatra did eat 2 pounds of dates a day. It is the staple of life to the Arab, and for centuries grown only in the Oasis of the East. Some offshoots had to be taken out of Arabia at night just a few hours ahead of a civil war. But we got'em, as you can see.
The Desert Rat, the prospecting gold hunting, Desert Rat; has never objected to the planting of dates here in the Desert of the Salton Sink. Few have laid down their picks to go into Date growing and here's the reason why.— A date worker climbs each tree 75 times a year — it takes about eight years to bring a date palm into bearing and costs about $4000. per acre.—Many Desert Rat has discovered that a couple pounds of dates is a fine addition to his chuck pack. My burro likes'em and spits out the seeds.
HUNDRED OF DATE GROWERS TO TELL YOU MORE
THE BIG SHOW OF THE DESERT
RIVERSIDE COUNTY FAIR
IN THE EARLY SPRING – EACH YEAR
OUR SPRING IS EARLY — IT'S WINTER MOST PLACES
INDIO, CALIFORNIA FEBRUARY 20-21-22-23
All text was hand-entered (no OCR scans) by Ric Carter (all of Harry's misspellings retained). Dick Oakes did the layout, markup and graphics reproduction, but not the contents, which remain the property of Bill Powers and his heirs.