A fly'n bolt

Many moons ago whilst living out of the old Mr. Emily log'n camp in eastern Oregon, I was cutt'n timber for a man known as R.W. He resided on a little ranch near a place called Cove.

I was the last man standing – that is – last timber cutter on the job and he was the cat skinner.

Anyway, we are out to lunch together and one day he fessed up to a crime of sorts the fall before. Like they say, "confession is good for the soul" - so they say. The story continued.

Lots of elk would come down in the late fall and mooch off his hay stack. Soo, he tells himself, self you should be eat'n one of them t...


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