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Updated: May 12, 2025
While he sat there with the shovel that had worn his hands hard lying at his feet, Cassidy, who had not recovered from the interview he had had with Stirling that morning, strode by, hot and out of temper, and then stopped and swung round on him. "Too stiff to get up hustle before the mosquitoes eat you, when supper's ready?" he said. Weston glanced down at his foot.
Buck Peters, foreman of Bar-20 Ranch had many cowboys; Pete Wilson, Red Connors, Billy Williams, Johnny Nelson, and a goodly number more, but chief among them was Hopalong Cassidy. Many interesting stories are told about him in "Bar-20 Days" but none of his thrilling experiences ever ended as did the one recited in this most unusual story, "The End of the Trail."
"You're on," said Billy, commencing to divest himself of his outer clothing. Stripped to the waist he displayed as wondrous a set of muscles as even Professor Cassidy had ever seen. The man waxed enthusiastic over them. "You sure ought to have some wallop up your sleeve," he said, admiringly. He then introduced Billy to the Harlem Hurricane, and Battling Dago Pete.
By the time the trusty brought his breakfast, Casey was applying to Mack Nolan the identical words and phrases which he had applied to young Kenner when he was the maddest. Don't ask me to tell you what they were. Jim Cassidy still clung desperately to his faith in Smiling Lou; but Casey's faith hadn't so much as a finger-hold on anything.
"You might make more by laying that I'd make him take the count in the first minute of the round you can place a hundred of mine on that, if you will, please." Cassidy took the hunch, and a moment later as the two men faced each other he regretted his act, for to his surprise the "white hope" came up for the fifth round smiling and confident once more.
"We thought he'd bin disguising himself, the way he wouldn't be recognised." "You're a fool!" said the captain. "Yes, sorr," said Officer Cassidy, meekly. "So are you, Donahue." "Yes, sorr." Archie's respect for this chappie was going up all the time. He seemed to be able to take years off the lives of these massive blighters with a word. It was like the stories you read about lion-tamers.
They saw the diminutive cowboy tear through the band of herders, his gun going; saw his horse stumble and fall and a figure pitch from the saddle and roll to one side. "And if I'm goin' I want to go out that way," shouted Bull Cassidy. "Shorty was some sport!" But the Mexicans had had enough of it. They wheeled and spurred toward the south.
They pelted two prime favorites who followed, with drooping head and woebegone visage, and never once responded to the fun, and the youngsters asked one another what on earth could have happened to Cassidy and Quinlan, who were always so ready to frolic with them.
His mind leaped from Horace to Hopalong, and he smiled grimly at the latter's promise to call. Glancing up, his eyes fell on a poster which conveyed the information in Spanish and in English that there was offered For Hopalong Cassidy, of the Ranch | | Known as the Bar-20, Texas, U. S. A. | | and which gave a good description of that gentleman.
More and more frequently he had heard that laugh since those warm days of autumn when they had last met the red-headed man, Terence Cassidy, of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, and his master had shot him on the white shore of Wollaston. "You see," said McKay, caressing Peter's hairy neck in the gloom.
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