Name’s P.K. Jack but Elsa calls me Jack. Born back when ol’ U.S. Grant was President and the buffalo still thought they owned the plains. Fought the Comanche, rustlers, blizzards and one hell of a grizzly who tried to bed-down in my beard for winter. Still got the scar from that tussle—and that damn bear’s tooth on my watch chain.

Elsa showed up in ‘93 riding sidesaddle with a Winchester across her lap and a look that could melt iron. Said she was looking for a man stupid enough to homestead 640 acres of pure rattlesnakes. Took her three hours flat to decide I fit the bill. Been stuck with her ever since—best mistake I ever made.

Out here on the open plains, Father Nature is one tough S.O.B. Live soft and you’re buzzard food by spring.

So we learned to render tallow the old-fashioned way: grass-fed beeves, slow fires and a whole lot of cussing. Elsa adds the honey from the hives, rosehip oil she hand-presses herself and a pinch of some red algae I pried out of a salmon’s gut after saving a family of little people from drowning in ‘09. (Long story. Buy me a whiskey and I’ll tell it.)

Result is some of the best damn products you’re ever gonna slap on your skin: one keeps your face from cracking like sun-baked rawhide, one calms a backside gone rogue from saddle itch or the devil’s tickle and one’s a hand-hewn soap that’ll cut through trail dust, creek mud and yesterday’s sins like a Bowie knife through fresh suet. We through some natural cologne and perfume balms in for when you need to clean up for the big barn dance.

We don’t do newfangled chemicals, foreign ingredients or apologies. Just honest renderings that work. Always have. Always will.

— P.K. Jack (and Elsa, who says I talk too much)