CONSERVATION CHARLEY 



Charley was bellying up by Harry Corry in the 

 bar in "Duncan's Dungeon." He'd stopped in 

 for a beer to stabilize his nerves before tying 

 on the feed bag. 



It's quiet in the Dungeon. ^The lights are dim. 

 The juke box has laryngitis. There isn't a 

 single bar fly caging drinks. Charley's nerves 

 are purring contentedly. 



He raises his glass and sips the beer. His 

 eye sights down the length of the glass and 

 zeros in on another pair of eyes—big, brown 

 eyes stares back the age old setting for ro- 

 mance. 



Charley can't help smiling out loud. Any other 

 fellow in this situation would be swapping glances 

 with a radiant redhead— or a beautiful brunette. 

 The best Charley can do is tangle eyeballs with 

 a brown-eyed elk's head hanging on the wall. 



Brown Eyes seems sad. Charley can't help 

 noticing the fly specks on the pupils. And the 

 sparkle of the glass eyeballs is dulled by a film 

 of grease and smoke which has accumulated 

 through the years. The hair on the neck and head 

 is dusty and unkept. The rack, which grazes the 

 ceiling, is a relic from a wild, free world far 

 from the stale air of the Dungeon. 



Charley feels sad, too. He tries to visualize 

 this motheaten wall fixture gliding regally through 

 the pine -scented air of some far away mountain 

 fastness. Brown Eyes must have been a proud 

 and graceful creature in those days. 



Chuck is jarred out of his reverie by a rough 

 belligerent voice, "Whatcha staring at?", 

 asks. uOHAT<^ A " 



Beer dribbles down » * 

 Charley's chin as his s 

 mouth gapes open. 



Is that taxidermist's 

 puppet talking to him ? 



"Yeah. I'm talking to you. " This time there's 

 no mistake about it. The head on the wall is 

 speaking. 



"I was just wondering how a feller like you can 

 hang around a place like this," Charley stammers. 

 "Must be pretty dead around here with no cows 

 to chase." 



"I can think of things I'd rather do than look at 

 bleary -eyed beer kegs like you all day," the 

 head admits. "But from where I hang it doesn't 

 look like I've got much choice. " f 



He pauses and curls his lip to chase a pestiferous 

 fly away. 



"Course, things were pretty tough out there at 

 times, too, " he continues. "Spring, summer 

 and fall were great. We had plenty to eat, the 

 sun was warm and the woods were full of friendly 

 girls." He drools a little over the memory. 



"Winter was murder, though." He shudders at 

 the thought. "The snow was deep, our winter 

 range was small and the winds were cold. There 

 wasn't enough food for all of us. We'd get weaker 

 and weaker. We'd crowd together and die. When 

 Spring came the ground was littered with the 

 dead. It was horrible to see all the youngsters 

 who never had a chance. " 



He chokes up for a minute and can't go on. 

 When he regains control of his voice he contin- 

 ues. "A hunter's bullet can sometimes be 

 merciful. The one that felled me spared me 

 the agonies of another bleak and hungry winter. 

 Many of the deer and elk and antelope you see 

 sprawled out on cars and pickups these days 

 are pretty lucky, too. They're not going to slowly 

 and painfully starve to death. " 



"Our range is just like a cattle range. It can be 

 overgrazed. Too many critters eat for too long 

 on an area and the grub runs out. Old Mom 

 Nature is a tough nut in some ways. She gets 

 rid of surplus animals one way or another. If 

 the winter, doesn't get them she'll get rid of them 

 with disease, predators or starvation. 



He sneezes as he gets a snoot full of second-hand 

 cigarette smoke. 



"Our range has to be managed just like cattle and 

 sheep range, " he says. "Much as I hate to ad- 

 mit it wildlife is just another crop from the land. 

 We're harvested each year by one means or another. 

 There's some satisfaction in ending up on some- 

 one's table rather than as coyote bait out in the 

 forest. 



"Yeah, this is kind of a lonely place to spend the 

 rest of my days but it beats being a pile of bones 

 out there. " And he bobs his head towards the 

 distant mountains. 



Charley suddenly gulps his beer and heads for the 

 door. When a stuffed elk head starts talking to 

 a feller — and making good sense — it's time to 

 vamoose. Next thing you know it'll turn pink and 

 come down to prance on the bar. 



They must be packing a lot of dynamite In beer 

 these days. 



i 



