An Old Spanish Custom

The late afternoon sun beats down on Hoppy and his drizzled old partners. They ride across Southern California, the golden land of the Dons and Spanish French arrow. Their thousand-mile cattle buying expedition has left them dusty and weary, and that the afternoon wears on Hoppy's increasing restlessness, begins to get on California's nerves.

What in turn is eating your hoppy? It's too quiet, too dog-gone quiet. Well, what do you expect? Senior Reacher, sir, and he didn't hear the sagebrush. No, but I did expect to see a coward who'd graze in the range here about.

Well, sharks, will he plenty of it when we hit old Don Leone or Tager's spread? It won't be long now, woman. How do you know? Well, dog, go on it, hoppy. Boy, isn't I Don Leone's top horse wrangler nine, ten years ago?

You were. Our director and I got the name California. I heard it was because some slicker I also sold you a deed to a California gold mine that turned out to be in the middle of the San Francisco bed.

No, hold on! That ain't the only reason they call me California. Oh, sure, I forgot. So you were done, Leon, his top horse, frankly. You bet. Of course, being so long ago, maybe he won't even remember me.

I wouldn't be at all surprised. What kind of horses did he raise? Oh, the fastest dog on critters you ever seen. Why, hoppy, them horses were so fast. Hey, let me tell you what happened once.

I was riding in Ortega's stadium about 50 miles from the house he ended one day with my pack burrow up trailing along behind. When all of a sudden a cloud burst come on, rushing up behind me on top of a 60 mile hurricane.