- Joined
- Jan 21, 2000
- Messages
- 8,888
Fun stuff. 
I grew up in south Texas near the Mexican border, hunting deer, javelina, doves and quail in the brush country with my father and brothers. When I turned 16 the craving for a quality personal hunting blade, fueled by $15 in accumulated birthday cash (1966), impelled me to the hardware store in search of something special. It came in the form of a large slip-joint Case known as a Bulldog, with double bolsters and beautiful yellow stag scales. For the better part of a decade I used it to clean everything I shot and carried it anytime I thought it might come in handy.
Every summer during my college years I enjoyed traveling around Mexico, exploring on my own--a practice that would be suicidal today. The big Case always rode in the top of my boot, a comfort both as a tool and for personal protection. One of those summers I was befriended by a fellow in Saltillo, Coahuila, whose home was deep in the mountains east of Guadalajara. We decided to make the trip so he could show me that part of the country, and shortly after we arrived in his small pueblo the summer rains washed out the dirt road serving as the only access. His brother-in-law Luis had a farm outside of town and took us in for almost two weeks before the road was passable again.
Luis' oldest daughter was Lourdes, a tall beauty with sparkling black eyes, flowing raven hair and a musical laugh, two years younger than I. She was running the household while her mother, who was about to give birth, was staying in town. Lourdes and I hit it off and were soon flirting, stealing kisses anytime we could get off to ourselves. I slept late one morning and she came into the bedroom saying it needed cleaning. She then said something derogatory about my slovenly habits, and I grabbed her for a hug. She wiggled free, walked to a chest in the corner of the bedroom and produced an old silver-worn .38 Super, brandishing it in my direction. "Te puedes tirar?" I asked if she could shoot. "Aver," she sneered, then stepped through a door to the outside. I quickly followed to within view of the yard, where several pigeons were scratching in the dirt. She checked the clip, then the chamber, jacked in a round, leveled the pistol at an unsuspecting pigeon, and fired. She missed--by maybe two inches. "Bueno," I grinned. I went to put on my boots, and the Bulldog was gone. I felt a little shock as I tried to figure who could have taken it. Then I noticed her impish smile. "Onde sta tu tranchete?" she asked with a giggle. Where was my knife? I shook my head--she had me. Late in the day she finally returned it to me with that musical laughter, as if presenting me with a great gift. Turned out her greatest gift to me was that memory--whenever I look at the old knife I remember her and the adventures of my youth.
After college I took a job with a publishing house in South Carolina and was catching up by phone one day with my father when he told me he'd been to a gun show and a fellow had a Case Bulldog like mine on his table for $100. "A HUNDRED?" I asked--was it some kind of special edition? "I don't think so," he said, "Just said they werent making them anymore." Wow, I thought. A hundred bucks. I decided I couldnt afford to continue using a knife worth that kind of money. The next hunting season I retired it and bought a standard Case Folding Hunter model, much the same as the ones they make today.
And so began my collection --
I grew up in south Texas near the Mexican border, hunting deer, javelina, doves and quail in the brush country with my father and brothers. When I turned 16 the craving for a quality personal hunting blade, fueled by $15 in accumulated birthday cash (1966), impelled me to the hardware store in search of something special. It came in the form of a large slip-joint Case known as a Bulldog, with double bolsters and beautiful yellow stag scales. For the better part of a decade I used it to clean everything I shot and carried it anytime I thought it might come in handy.
Every summer during my college years I enjoyed traveling around Mexico, exploring on my own--a practice that would be suicidal today. The big Case always rode in the top of my boot, a comfort both as a tool and for personal protection. One of those summers I was befriended by a fellow in Saltillo, Coahuila, whose home was deep in the mountains east of Guadalajara. We decided to make the trip so he could show me that part of the country, and shortly after we arrived in his small pueblo the summer rains washed out the dirt road serving as the only access. His brother-in-law Luis had a farm outside of town and took us in for almost two weeks before the road was passable again.
Luis' oldest daughter was Lourdes, a tall beauty with sparkling black eyes, flowing raven hair and a musical laugh, two years younger than I. She was running the household while her mother, who was about to give birth, was staying in town. Lourdes and I hit it off and were soon flirting, stealing kisses anytime we could get off to ourselves. I slept late one morning and she came into the bedroom saying it needed cleaning. She then said something derogatory about my slovenly habits, and I grabbed her for a hug. She wiggled free, walked to a chest in the corner of the bedroom and produced an old silver-worn .38 Super, brandishing it in my direction. "Te puedes tirar?" I asked if she could shoot. "Aver," she sneered, then stepped through a door to the outside. I quickly followed to within view of the yard, where several pigeons were scratching in the dirt. She checked the clip, then the chamber, jacked in a round, leveled the pistol at an unsuspecting pigeon, and fired. She missed--by maybe two inches. "Bueno," I grinned. I went to put on my boots, and the Bulldog was gone. I felt a little shock as I tried to figure who could have taken it. Then I noticed her impish smile. "Onde sta tu tranchete?" she asked with a giggle. Where was my knife? I shook my head--she had me. Late in the day she finally returned it to me with that musical laughter, as if presenting me with a great gift. Turned out her greatest gift to me was that memory--whenever I look at the old knife I remember her and the adventures of my youth.
After college I took a job with a publishing house in South Carolina and was catching up by phone one day with my father when he told me he'd been to a gun show and a fellow had a Case Bulldog like mine on his table for $100. "A HUNDRED?" I asked--was it some kind of special edition? "I don't think so," he said, "Just said they werent making them anymore." Wow, I thought. A hundred bucks. I decided I couldnt afford to continue using a knife worth that kind of money. The next hunting season I retired it and bought a standard Case Folding Hunter model, much the same as the ones they make today.
And so began my collection --
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