volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

holes peppered the clapboard shingles of the hotel before which he tied his
mount, and there appeared not to be many whole panes of glass in the
community. Shots punctuated the air continually, and would continue to do
so throughout both day and night.
This was his first cattle town, and he had been flat-footed by such a
demonstration of hooliganism.
It was at the Agate where he had been instructed to find berth, in
anticipation of One-Armed Wilson, ramrod for Misters Goodnight and
Loving.
At this time of his history he did not wear a gun; such a thing would have
been an unaffordable extravagance. He did, however, carry with him as a
parting gift from Sol—on the clear understanding it would be returned in the
same condition as it had been borrowed—a .44 Henry Rifle.
Sol had not been extravagant when he claimed, “It’s a rifle you could
load on Sunday and shoot all week long.” He had impressed upon him not
only the rifle’s responsibility but, as kickshaw of its history, the story of its
presence at the Battle of Altoona, in which a company of sixteen men armed
with such levered devices had held at bay—and turned to riot—an assembly
mounting into the hundreds.
“Learn to shoot with this, and leave the short gun aside,” Sol counseled.
“A rifle is the staff by which you shall be known a man who claims his
business his own, and one not impressed by ballyhoo.”
He took his bags and bedroll off the saddle, and shouldered the Henry in
its boot.
The Agate proved to be the finest hostelry in town, with red-and-gold
flocking upon its walls—claimed by the management as brought all the
way from Paris, France—and the floors covered with Byzantine-patterned
Aubusson rugs. From a gold-leafed plaster medallion on the ceiling in the
capacious foyer depended a colossal crystal chandelier from which, according
to the manager’s chin-wagging, many strong men had swung in the name of
drunken revelry.
“I have come seeking a gent name of Wilson, who is in th’ employ of
Misters Goodnight and—”
“—Over there,” informed the pomaded manager instantly.
The man he had occasion to indicate sat upon a chintz settee, reading
a newspaper. The paper had been neatly folded into quarters, in order to
facilitate his reading, as the man in question appeared, in accordance with
his nickname, to have but a single arm.
2 ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY