Tweedle had railed for weeks about what good buck tags we had drawn. Apparently he used to cowboy in the area and knew it well.

I was not so sure. The unit was not exactly an easy draw and the kilt-wearing Scotsman that resides in the back of my mind, ever practical, would take a break from playing the pipes to remind me of the preference points I had cashed in to draw the tag.

Suffice it to say I was beginning to feel uneasy. Buck season was close and Tweedle Dinkford was beginning to annoy me with his winks and nods and promises of giant bucks running around by the half-dozen.

After firing a few reassuring rounds through my .300 Savage at the range, I heard the all-too-familiar rattle of an old jalopy struggling to climb the grade. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

I began to slowly gather my things, knowing my peaceful range session was about to end. After the engine coughed and backfired, I heard the groan and slam of the old Chevy truck door.

“Looks like I found you,” Tweedle drawled.

“You sure did,” I replied, “just like you always do!”

Tweedle Dinkford was an interesting fellow. How we became friends nobody could seem to remember. Near as I could recall, he just started coming over to my house once he learned I could handload.

Tweedle had led an interesting life, most of which was his own doing. A combination of bad luck and worse choices had left him in a constant cycle of economic jeopardy. But one thing Tweedle understood was how to lean on his friends in times of need.

After driving all the way to the range, it was discovered he had forgotten his ammunition. Normally he would’ve borrowed — pronounced “bummed” — some off of me but he was carrying a .243; my .300s wouldn’t chamber no matter how hard he stomped on the bolt.

Luckily for him someone had thrown a dozen rusty cartridges into the trash bucket. Collecting an empty Keystone Light box from the back of his jalopy, he walked it downrange about 20 paces and then returned to the firing line. Firing three shots, he hit the box twice. Smiling as he pocketed the other nine cartridges, Tweedle was ready to go hunting.

That deer season was a climactic conundrum, to be sure. One could get frostbite and suffer heatstroke within a couple of hours of each other. A wildfire had burned the place up a few years before, and the vegetation was largely noxious weeds and brush.

It must’ve been 90 degrees that day. By noon we were both nearly dying of thirst as we were out of water from hiking. The rocks seemed to radiate the heat like some kind of oven. Our clothes stuck to us, the sweat chafing our skin in the most uncomfortable of places.

Tweedle jumped up on a stump and exclaimed, “I know where we are! There is a water trough two draws over, —we will find refreshment there.”

Rolling my eyes, I began to curse every extra ounce of weight that I carried as we continued our sojourn. Our heads pounded as the unquenched thirst began to dry our mouths. When we arrived at the water trough, our gamble proved to be a mistake. The steel pipe extending from the embankment was not the gushing artesian about which Tweedle had been singing a siren’s song.

No doubt due to dehydration and exhaustion from our hike, I began to contemplate punching Tweedle out from underneath his greasy Stetson, but I didn’t want to waste energy that I didn’t have.

Defeated, we sat down in the shade of the lone pine tree, the alkali dust puffing up into our sweaty faces to add one more insult to injury. I really didn’t want to die here next to a dry water hole with only Tweedle Dinkford to keep me company until the bitter end.

After a bit, Tweedle took off his Stetson and tossed it uncharacteristically onto the ground. He loved that hat; I never knew him to cast it aside so carelessly. I began to be concerned.

“Gimme yore pistol,” he commanded.

Slowly I unsnapped the flap and drew the High Standard .22 and handed it to him butt first. Tweedle’s ever-present grin was long gone from his face. His eyes were gaunt and his countenance was pale. Whatever pain I had felt, he was in much worse condition. I had been too self-absorbed to notice how he had struggled to make the hike and was in a bad way.

Sincerely he said, “I’m sure sorry, friend. There’s only one way to get us out of this fix!”

He slowly got to his feet and staggered over towards the water pipe, still clutching my handgun. My mind raced. What is this crazy fella going to do now?

Tweedle racked the slide and stared at the pistol, then the water pipe. Carefully he poked the muzzle of my handgun just inside the pipe and squeezed the trigger. The bullet traveled straight down the pipe and into the spring. After a couple of gurgles and farts, water belched out of the pipe and began filling the rusty trough. After it ran clear, Tweedle smiled and began guzzling it down.

Incredulous, I jumped up and ran over to the trough and began drinking as well. No water had ever tasted better to anyone than that first mouthful after going so long without on a hot day. It was ice-cold and pure as the driven snow.

From that day on, Tweedle still annoyed me but I could no longer consider him anything but a friend. We both tagged out that weekend on some nice eating-size muley bucks, but that wasn’t the point of the hunt. Maybe the point was no matter how badly a neighbor annoys us, the day could come that we need each other to survive. If you’ll listen, life will teach you real lessons.

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