Mr Trendley Assumes Added Importance

: Hopalong Cassidy's Rustler Round-up

That the rustlers were working under a well organized system was

evident. That they were directed by a master of the game was

ceaselessly beaten into the consciousness of the Association by the

diversity, dash and success of their raids. No one, save the three men

whom they had destroyed, had ever seen them. But, like Tamale Jose,

they had raided once too often.



Mr. Trendley, more familiarly known to me
as "Slippery," was the

possessor of a biased conscience, if any at all. Tall, gaunt and

weather-beaten and with coal-black eyes set deep beneath hairless

eyebrows, he was sinister and forbidding. Into his forty-five years of

existence he had crowded a century of experience, and unsavory rumors

about him existed in all parts of the great West. From Canada to

Mexico and from Sacramento to Westport his name stood for brigandage.

His operations had been conducted with such consummate cleverness that

in all the accusations there was lacking proof.



Only once had he erred, and then in the spirit of pure deviltry and in the

days of youthful folly, and his mistake was a written note. He was even

thought by some to have been concerned in the Mountain Meadow

Massacre; others thought him to have been the leader of the band of

outlaws that had plundered along the Santa Fe Trail in the late `60's.

In Montana and Wyoming he was held responsible for the outrages of the

band that had descended from the Hole-in-the-Wall territory and for

over a hundred miles carried murder and theft that shamed as being

weak the most assiduous efforts of zealous Cheyennes. It was in this

last raid that he had made the mistake and it was in this raid that

Frenchy McAllister had lost his wife.



When Frenchy had first been approached by Buck as to his going in

search of the rustlers he had asked to go alone. This had been denied

by the foreman of the Bar-20 because the men whom he had selected to

accompany the scout were of such caliber that their presence could not

possibly form a hindrance. Besides being his most trusted friends they

were regarded by him as being the two best exponents of "gun-play"

that the West afforded. Each was a specialist: Hopalong, expert beyond

belief with his Colt's six-shooters, was only approached by Red, whose

Winchester was renowned for its accuracy. The three made a perfect

combination, as the rashness of the two younger men would be under the

controlling influence of a man who could retain his coolness of mind

under all circumstances.



When Buck and Frenchy looked into each other's eyes there sprang

into the mind of each the same name-Slippery Trendley. Both had spent

the greater part of a year in fruitless search for that person, the

foreman of the Tin-Cup in vengeance for the murder of his wife, the

blasting of his prospects and the loss of his herds; Buck, out of

sympathy for his friend and also because they had been partners in the

Double Y. Now that the years had passed and the long-sought-for

opportunity was believed to be at hand, there was promised either a

cessation of the outrages or that Buck would never again see his

friends.



When the three mounted and came to him for final instructions Buck

forced himself to be almost repellent in order to be capable of

coherent speech. Hopalong glanced sharply at him and then understood,

Red was all attention and eagerness and remarked nothing but the

words.



"Have yu ever heard of Slippery Trendley?" Harshly inquired the

foreman.



They nodded, and on the faces of the younger men a glint of hatred

showed itself, but Frenchy wore his poker countenance.



Buck continued: "Th' reason I asked yu was because I don't want yu

to think yore goin' on no picnic. I ain't shore it's him, but I've had

some hopeful information. Besides, he is th' only man I knows of who's

capable of th' plays that have been made. It's hardly necessary for me

to tell yu to sleep with one eye open and never to get away from yore

guns. Now I'm goin' to tell yu th' hardest part: yu are goin' to

search th' Staked Plain from one end to th' other, an' that's what no

white man's ever done to my knowledge.



"Now, listen to this an' don't forget it. Twenty miles north from

Last Stand Rock is a spring; ten miles south of that bend in Hell

Arroyo is another. If yu gets lost within two days from th' time yu

enters th' Plain, put yore left hand on a cactus sometime between sun-

up an' noon, move around until yu are over its shadow an' then ride

straight ahead-that's south. If you goes loco beyond Last Stand Rock,

follow th' shadows made before noon-that's th' quickest way to th'

Pecos. Yu all knows what to do in a sand-storm, so I won't bore you

with that. Repeat all I've told yu," he ordered and they complied.



"I'm tellin' yu this," continued the foreman, indicating the two

auxiliaries, "because yu might get separated from Frenchy. Now I

suggests that yu look around near the' Devils Rocks: I've heard that

there are several water holes among them, an' besides, they might be

turned into fair corrals. Mind yu, I know what I've said sounds damned

idiotic for anybody that has had as much experience with th' Staked

Plain as I have, but I've had every other place searched for miles

around. Th' men of all th' ranches have been scoutin' an' th' Plain is

th' only place left. Them rustlers has got to be found if we have to

dig to hell for them. They've taken th' pot so many times that they

reckons they owns it, an' we've got to at least make a bluff at

drawin' cards. Mebby they're at th' bottom of th' Pecos," here he

smiled faintly, "but wherever they are, we've got to find them. I want

to holler `Keno."



"If you finds where they hangs out come away instanter," here his

face hardened and his eyes narrowed, "for it'll take more than yu

three to deal with them th' way I'm a-hankerin' for. Come right back

to th' Double Arrow, send me word by one of their punchers an' get all

the rest you can afore I gets there. It'll take me a day to get th'

men together an' to reach yu. I'm goin' to use smoke signals to call

th' other ranches, so there won't be no time lost. Carry all th' water

yu can pack when yu leaves th' Double Arrow an' don't depend none on

cactus juice. Yu better take a pack horse to carry it, an' yore grub-

yu can shoot it if yu have to hit th' trail real hard."



The three riders felt of their accouterments, said "So long," and

cantered off for the pack horse and extra ammunition. Then they rode

toward the Double Arrow, stopping at Cowan's long enough to spend some

money, and reached the Double Arrow at nightfall. Early the next

morning they passed the last line-house and, with the profane well-

wishes of its occupants ringing in their ears, passed onto one of

Nature's worst blunders- the Staked Plain.



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