“Lookin’ for me, Cassidy?”
Hoppy looked up to see Saxx standing under the shelving rock. His side bloody and his jaw badly scraped, the foreman shifted unsteadily on his feet. “He suckered me with a hideout gun,” Saxx said contemptuously. “I’m gonna kill you, Hopalong, an’ then I’ll hunt down that yellow belly an’ take care of him.” He stared somberly at Cassidy. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll be turnin’ that girl loose. She tipped me off on Tredway. Told me who he was.”
“So you know then?”
“I know. That don’t change what’s between us, Cassidy. You whipped me—I don’t take that from any man.”
He stepped forward again, his eyes cold. “They say you’re fast. Well, let’s see!” His hand dropped with incredible speed and his gun came up roaring, but his first shot went far wild.
Hopalong Cassidy had drawn his gun as he always drew, with flashing, incredible speed. Once his hand was empty, then filled, and the gun blasting death. His first shot was a split second before Saxx fired. It struck, smashing through bone and tissue, turning Saxx halfway around with its force and sending the outlaw’s bullet off into the night. Saxx swung back, his eyes blazing with cold fury. He fired, and Hopalong felt death brush his face, and then Hopalong fired again and again. The bullets smashed Saxx back on his heels. The last one broke his right arm. Switching the gun to his left hand, Saxx fired. He was falling as he pulled the trigger, and he followed his own last bullet to the ground. The gun fired once as he lay upon it, a muffled sound.
Cassidy fed cartridges into his gun and holstered it. Another tough man who had gone down a wrong trail. Why couldn’t they see?
He turned away and started down the canyon calling for Topper. After some time he stopped and listened but heard nothing. He had almost given up and was considering climbing out of the canyon and going after Krug’s mount, which had been left back at the ambush position at the head of the canyon trail, when he heard a movement in the brush. He called out again and then he heard a hoof click on stone and Topper appeared down the canyon, a white smear in the darkness.
“Come on, boy!” The horse trotted up, ears pricked. “There you are, you’re a good old horse.” Hopalong stroked his mane and then swung into the saddle.
There was a trail he found that left the canyon and he followed it up, and when dawn came at last, he circled wide and located the trail of two horses, striking off into wilder and wilder country.
The rocks grew more barren, and as the sun rose the land turned to fire. The grass fell behind and there were no more trees. On and on they pressed with the sun boiling down, and Hopalong’s lips cracked and his eyes worked at the distant heat haze, trying to find a sight of the two he followed.
His shirt grew darker with sweat, the stubble of beard on his cheeks gathered dust, and his eyes were ever busy, never flagging in their quest. The heat was a living thing, and he touched his lips only a little with the water in his canteen, then pushed on. Dust devils danced across a vast, empty distance marked by nothing but the trail of two riders. And then out of the north came another trail, a trail of several riders that moved in and obliterated the trail they followed.
Hopalong moved along, alert now. Then another rider joined the group from the north and one from the south, and he pushed on until all memory of time was lost and only the heat and the dust remained, the heat, the dust, and the trail of the horsemen.
Then from out of the distance came a long shout, then a shot. Suddenly there were other shots, and then toward him, from far off, came a horseman!
With incredible speed, he came on, heat waves making the image waver and shift. He was lashing a foam-flecked horse, riding as if the demons of hell were after him—and maybe they were!
Behind him pursued a dozen mounted men, their cloaks billowing out behind them. The rider saw Hopalong and swerved wide, racing toward a clump of brush and rocks; at the last moment his horse faltered. The riders cut across, and the lone man, who was Tredway, threw himself from his horse. He dodged and ran, stumbling in his haste, for the rocks.
He seemed to realize he was too slow, for he whirled and threw up his gun. The riders struck him then, and two of them grabbed his arms. His feet fought desperately to reach the earth, and from behind there was a volley of shots and the two riders dropped the lifeless body and charged on. Then they swung around and came back, and as they rode by each man fired a gun into the body of Tredway, and then, without seeming to notice Hopalong, they swung wide and rode off into the heat waves.
For a long time Hopalong sat on his horse, staring down at the crumpled, lifeless bundle of old clothes and used flesh that had been a man. When he looked up, it was to see Cindy Blair riding toward him; her clothes were torn and her cheek scratched.
“Are you all right?” he asked quickly.
She nodded, glancing at the dark bundle, then away. “They—the Brothers—they did that?”
He nodded. “Let’s go home. Rig will be worried.”
Almost an hour later she suddenly spoke. “They must have had their reasons.”
“Yes.”
“He told me about the PM. He transplanted a tree, grass, everything.”
“I know. I figured it too late. Those stubbly limbs on that cottonwood, then the smaller ones growing out of them. I should have known it had been transplanted.”
“Hoppy? He was Fan Harlan, wasn’t he?”
“Sure. He never left this country for long. He was crazy to come back, with the Brothers wanting him, but he saw his chance here, and he knew they never left their mesa.”
They returned to the head of the canyon trail for Krug. The outlaw was gone. He had worked himself loose and escaped. “I’m not sorry,” Hopalong told Cindy. “Maybe he’s learned his lesson.”
When they rode into the streets of Kachina, it was to find a crowd of horsemen all mounted to ride out after them. Rig explained they had been out searching, had lost the trail, and returned for fresh horses and food. Hopalong explained what had happened. As they talked Cindy suddenly caught Hoppy’s arm. “Look!” she whispered. “Look at this!”
A dozen riders, clad in cloaks and hoods, rode down the streets in ranks of three. Before the saloon they stopped and one of them dismounted. He walked up to the wall and tacked a notice there. Mounting again, they turned and rode quietly out of town. Not until they were gone did anyone approach the notice.
Hopalong Cassidy leaned from his horse and read the words aloud.
“ATTENTION, CITIZENS OF KACHINA
“Be it known that the man calling himself Justin Tredway, known to the law as Fan Harlan, was an abandoned child adopted by the Brothers Penitentes;
“That upon leaving the Order, he stole the Treasury and he killed in cold blood two of the elders;
“That he brought disgrace upon us by his subsequent conduct; that he, by our records, robbed four trains, seventeen stages, killed eleven men and one woman;
“For this, in solemn conclave, the Brothers Penitentes have tried, judged, and sentenced to death the man John Woolrich, alias Fan Harlan, alias Justin Tredway.
“John Woolrich was executed at fifteen minutes past three o’clock this day.”
Rig Taylor rode up beside Cindy and took her hand. Hopalong Cassidy turned away from the placard and swung his horse around. On the steps in front of the saloon a young man was sitting. He was neatly dressed, his gray shirt taut over a powerful chest, his naturally cold face now lighted by a smile.
“Mesquite Jenkins!” Hopalong exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“Well,” he said, “I’ve got a loan for seven thousand dollars and I figured on starting a new ranch up Blue Mountain way. I was hopin’ you’d help me out.”
Over the mountains beyond Babylon Mesa heavy thunderheads had gathered. The heat still hung heavy in the sky, presaging the thunderstorm that was coming. Hopalong was tired, but once a job was done, he never could stay in one place for very long.
“All right.” He
turned to his friends. “It looks like I’m going to be heading out.” Dismounting, he shook hands with Rig. Cindy Blair stepped up. “Thank you, Hoppy,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Sarah Towne took his hand and led him a few steps to where Pike was standing. “We’re going to make a new life: In a few days we’re going to head for Oregon.”
“I’m glad,” Hopalong told her. He shook hands with Pike; when Pike let go he grabbed Cassidy in a fierce bear hug that lifted Hopalong from the ground. The two men laughed.
“If you ever need me,” the man who had once been Ben Hardy said, “I’ll come a-runnin’.”
Hopalong Cassidy swung into the saddle, and with Mesquite at his side the two started up the trail. In the distance a muffled avalanche of thunder rolled and rumbled. Through the storm clouds the afternoon sun sent streaks of cathedral light across the sky and the first spattering of drops fell, dappling the ground and making the dust jump.
“Red Connors is meeting me out there,” Mesquite said as they rode out of town. “And if we can find Jonny, we’ll send for him. It’ll be like old times again.”
“Well, lead on then,” Hopalong Cassidy said, tugging his hat down on his head. “I always did like ridin’ in the rain.”
PIKE TOWNE STOOD in the main street of Kachina long after the others had taken shelter inside the hotel. The warm rain tapped on his hat and slowly soaked through his shirt. He looked off across the country, watching the mounted figures of Hopalong Cassidy and Mesquite Jenkins as they followed the trail out of town, appearing and disappearing in the folds of the landscape, finally cresting a hill that would take them forever out of sight. The clouds had broken momentarily and the hill was drenched in golden shafts of light. One figure went on, but the other stopped on the crest of the hill and seemed to be looking back. Pike Towne thought he could see the figure lift a hand in farewell, but because of the distance, and the rain, he couldn’t be sure.
A FINAL EXPLANATION,
THANKS, AND FAREWELL
HERE AGAIN IS the brief version of my father’s involvement with Hopalong Cassidy stories. For a more in-depth account please refer to the Afterword in The Rustlers of West Fork.
It goes like this … in the early 1950s, actor William Boyd took his version of the Cassidy character from the big screen to television. His earlier movies and Clarence Mulford’s Hopalong books had been very popular and so Doubleday, Mulford’s publisher, became interested in marketing some new Hoppy novels. Mulford, who had been retired since 1941, did not want to continue the job and so he turned the task over to a young (actually not that young; Dad was 42) writer of pulp magazine Westerns … Louis L’Amour.
The publishers chose the pen name Tex Burns for him and in 1950 and ’51 he wrote his four Hopalong Cassidy books. They were published as the feature stories in Hopalong Cassidy’s Western Magazine, and in hardcover by Doubleday. Due to a disagreement with the publisher over which interpretation of the Hopalong character to use (Dad wanted to use Mulford’s original Hoppy, a red-haired, hard-drinking, foul-mouthed, and rather bellicose cowhand instead of Doubleday’s preference for the slick, heroic approach that Boyd adopted for his films), my father refused to admit that he had ever written those last four Hopalongs. Starting with The Rustlers of West Fork, this is the first time that they have ever been published with his name on them.
Trouble Shooter ended this period in Louis L’Amour’s life; he went on to publish the novel Hondo under his own name in 1953. I have a report from a fan, Don Hant, that he discovered records in the Atlanta Public Library of a half-dozen or more Hopalong Cassidy stories written under the name Tex Burns. As far as I can tell only the four that Bantam has just published were actually written by Louis L’Amour. I assume that using the Tex Burns pseudonym the magazine went on to publish more issues with stories by another writer or writers.
I have also had some mail regarding an unresolved area of The Riders of High Rock. Several readers have written to me asking “What happened to Frank Gillespie?” The last we heard of him he had ridden off in pursuit of Jack Bolt, and Hopalong and his friends were following after. He’s never heard from again. For both my father and myself there’s only one thing I can say …
Sorry. We blew it.
SO IT’S FAREWELL to Hopalong, Tex Burns, and all the confusion. In the future you can look forward to several more books of short stories to be published at regular intervals and The Louis L’Amour Western Magazine, which should already be available as you read this. The magazine is our attempt to pass along some of the opportunities that my father found in the pulp magazines to new writers in the Western genre. I hope you’ll like it.
I AGAIN OFFER my thanks to David R. Hastings II and Peter G. Hastings, Trustees of the Clarence E. Mulford Trust. Also to the late C. E. Mulford himself for creating the classic character of Hopalong Cassidy.
My best to you all,
BEAU L’AMOUR
Los Angeles, CA
September 1993
About Louis L’Amour
“I think of myself in the oral tradition—
as a troubadour, a village taleteller, the man
in the shadows of the campfire. That’s the way
I’d like to be remembered—as a storyteller.
A good storyteller.”
IT IS DOUBTFUL that any author could be as at home in the world re-created in his novels as Louis Dearborn L’Amour. Not only could he physically fill the boots of the rugged characters he wrote about, but he literally “walked the land my characters walk.” His personal experiences as well as his lifelong devotion to historical research combined to give Mr. L’Amour the unique knowledge and understanding of people, events, and the challenge of the American frontier that became the hallmarks of his popularity.
Of French-Irish descent, Mr. L’Amour could trace his own family in North America back to the early 1600s and follow their steady progression westward, “always on the frontier.” As a boy growing up in Jamestown, North Dakota, he absorbed all he could about his family’s frontier heritage, including the story of his great-grandfather who was scalped by Sioux warriors.
Spurred by an eager curiosity and desire to broaden his horizons, Mr. L’Amour left home at the age of fifteen and enjoyed a wide variety of jobs including seaman, lumberjack, elephant handler, skinner of dead cattle, miner, and an officer in the transportation corps during World War II. During his “yondering” days he also circled the world on a freighter, sailed a dhow on the Red Sea, was shipwrecked in the West Indies and stranded in the Mojave Desert. He won fifty-one of fifty-nine fights as a professional boxer and worked as a journalist and lecturer. He was a voracious reader and collector of rare books. His personal library contained 17,000 volumes.
Mr. L’Amour “wanted to write almost from the time I could talk.” After developing a widespread following for his many frontier and adventure stories written for fiction magazines, Mr. L’Amour published his first full-length novel, Hondo, in the United States in 1953. Every one of his more than 100 books is in print; there are more than 270 million copies of his books in print worldwide, making him one of the bestselling authors in modern literary history. His books have been translated into twenty languages, and more than forty-five of his novels and stories have been made into feature films and television movies.
His hardcover bestsellers include The Lonesome Gods, The Walking Drum (his twelfth-century historical novel), Jubal Sackett, Last of the Breed, and The Haunted Mesa. His memoir, Education of a Wandering Man, was a leading bestseller in 1989. Audio dramatizations and adaptations of many L’Amour stories are available on cassettes and CDs from Random House Audio publishing.
The recipient of many great honors and awards, in 1983 Mr. L’Amour became the first novelist ever to be awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the United States Congress in honor of his life’s work. In 1984 he was also awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Reagan.
Louis L’Amour died on June 10, 1988. His wife, Kathy, and their two children, B
eau and Angelique, carry the L’Amour tradition forward with new books written by the author during his lifetime to be published by Bantam.
Bantam Books by Louis L’Amour
ASK YOUR BOOKSELLER FOR THE BOOKS YOU HAVE MISSED.
NOVELS
Bendigo Shafter
Borden Chantry
Brionne
The Broken Gun
The Burning Hills
The Californios
Callaghen
Catlow
Chancy
The Cherokee Trail
Comstock Lode
Conagher
Crossfire Trail
Dark Canyon
Down the Long Hills
The Empty Land
Fair Blows the Wind
Fallon
The Ferguson Rifle
The First Fast Draw
Flint
Guns of the Timberlands
Hanging Woman Creek
The Haunted Mesa
Heller with a Gun
The High Graders
High Lonesome
Hondo
How the West Was Won
The Iron Marshal
The Key-Lock Man
Kid Rodelo
Kilkenny
Killoe
Kilrone
Kiowa Trail
Last of the Breed
Last Stand at Papago Wells
The Lonesome Gods
The Man Called Noon
The Man from Skibbereen
The Man from the Broken Hills
Matagorda
Milo Talon
The Mountain Valley War
North to the Rails
Over on the Dry Side
Passin’ Through
The Proving Trail
The Quick and the Dead
Radigan
Reilly’s Luck
The Rider of Lost Creek
Rivers West
The Shadow Riders
Shalako
Showdown at Yellow Butte
Silver Canyon
Sitka
Son of a Wanted Man
Taggart
The Tall Stranger
To Tame a Land
Tucker
Under the Sweetwater Rim
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