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Page 20 text:
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by George Weaver .5
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Page 21 text:
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Going by bus down US. 101 from Portland to San Fransicso is no joy ride. It is a cheap whistle stop way that takes at least twenty hours. Sometimes you can make it faster by thumb, but it's too cold now. An old bum got on in Newburg, I tried to hide behind my copy of Rolling Stone, but he crowded in beside me anyway. He was wearing a gray wool overcoat that heId at least twenty different wine smells; all 99 It a gallon. Wanna drink? he said after we were moving. No man, I don't drink. That's too bad, bub. Just too bad. Yeah, I said, hopefully ending the conversation. About a mile later the bus hit a bump and some wine spilled on my jeans. You old fart! Man, why were you allowed on this bus with that shit? Driver! Driver! But it was no use complaining. The driver wouldn't answer. I wasn't riding the luxury express. Old fart! the old fart said, settling in between me and the aisle. That reminds me of a story. Happened back in July of '29. It seems we was sittin around one hot night, playin cards and drinkin home brew, when the door to the cabin crashes open and in steps the onriest lookin fella we ever set eyes on. I'm Cody Kincaid,' says he, 'I've rode more logs, cut more trees, split more rails, screwed more gals, drank more whiskey, and had more teeth knocked out than the whole damn packa ya! I just hired on in this camp, an I wanna know who fills the biggest cork boots round here? Who's the Ace of Axes?' We just sat and stared at im. The speech he just made wasn't exactly the kind ya make friends with. But when ya took a good look at Cody Kin- caid, with his barrel chest and tree trunk arms, ya decided to stay on his good side. He was probably all he said he was, and more. After a few minutes, Preacher Montee, a book-Iearned bastard of a skunk, says to im, 'Well Mr. Kincaid. I guess you want Jack Rivers. Yep, he's the one. He's the Ace of Axes rou nd here.' 'Where do I find this Rivers?' asks Cody. 'Right there,' says Mac Duncan pointin to the end of the table. Jack was sittin there hoidin a full house. He wanted to start the game again cause there was a lot ridin in the kitty. Jackywas a quiet man, didn't rile too easily. But if you put im in a corner, all hell would break loose. He was one helluva logger. He could hit the knot on a pine tree from fifty yards with an axe. One time, back un '25, he was ridin some logs up the Columbia to Astoria when he got caught in some fast rapids. He went through em slikker'n a greased pig on fair day. Hardly got his boots wet. Now he was watchin like a salmon eyes a bear as the red-headed tornado, Cody Kinkaid, headed towards im. 'You Jack Rivers?' asks Cody. 'That's right. What kin I do fer ya?' 'l'm Cody Kinkaid, and I aim to become the Ace of Axes around here. That is it'n you don't mind.' 'Well,' says Jack, 'if ya kin axe and split and use the pike as loud as ya talk, ya should have no trouble at all becomin the Ace of Axes! We spoke Jack Rivers! Shake!' It Cody had any funny business up his sleeve, it was alI gone when Jack stock up. Cody didn't realize how huge his new opponent was. Jack was like a sequoia with black leaves. He was easily a head taller than Cody though not as wide. He took Cody's hand, shook it heartily, and sat back down to his cards. Cody threw his gear on an empty bunk and sat down next to Jack and said, tDeal me in next hand. I feel lucky.' Here the old man stopped and took a great swig from the brown paper bag. When he turned back to me it was with a great deal of self-esteem.
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