The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others — Reading Companion

(0 User reviews) 357

In Category - Exploration Survival Adventure Tales

Authors: Mulford, Clarence Edward, 1883-1956, Dixon, Maynard, 1875-1946 [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2013 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Western stories; Cassidy, Hopalong (Fictitious character) -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 81,703

Reading time 356 min

Text sections 11

Before opening The Coming of Cassidy—And the Others — Reading Companion, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 81,703 words, 5 hr 56 min estimated reading time, and 11 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 14.1 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Western stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #42441

Clarence E. Mulford's 1913 collection of linked Western stories traces the early years of Hopalong Cassidy and the Bar-20 crew through harsh winters, cattle drives, and range justice, as framed by a narrator gathering tales from the taciturn cowboys.

Editorial Edition Score 4.8/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg42441

Read the Text

"It’s Injuns, close after us"

Crawford’s Colt tore loose from his fingers and dropped near the wheel of the wagon

"Yo’re a liar!" rang out the vibrant voice of the cowman

THE COMING OF CASSIDY AND THE OTHERS

THE COMING OF CASSIDY

The trail boss shook his fist after the departing puncher and swore softly. He hated to lose a man at this time and he had been a little reckless in threatening to "fire" him; but in a gun-fighting outfit there was no room for a hothead. "Cimarron" was boss of the outfit that was driving a large herd of cattle to California, a feat that had been accomplished before, but that no man cared to attempt the second time. Had his soul been enriched by the gift of prophecy he would have turned back. As it was he returned to the work ahead of him. "Aw, let him go," he growled. "He ’s wuss off ’n I am, an’ he ’ll find it out quick. I never did see nobody what got crazy mad so quick as him."

"Bill" Cassidy, not yet of age, but a man in stature and strength, rode north because it promised him civilization quicker than any other way except the back trail, and he was tired of the coast range. He had forgotten the trail-boss during the last three days of his solitary journeying and the fact that he was in the center of an uninhabited country nearly as large as a good-sized state gave him no concern; he was equipped for two weeks, and fortified by youth’s confidence.

All day long he rode, around mesas and through draws, detouring to avoid canyons and bearing steadily northward with a certainty that was a heritage. Gradually the great bulk of mesas swung off to the west, and to the east the range grew steadily more level as it swept toward the peaceful river lying in the distant valley like a carelessly flung rope of silver. The forest vegetation, so luxuriant along the rivers and draws a day or two before, was now rarely seen, while chaparrals and stunted mesquite became more common.

He was more than twenty-five hundred feet above the ocean, on a great plateau broken by mesas that stretched away for miles in a vast sea of grass. There was just enough tang in the dry April air to make riding a pleasure and he did not mind the dryness of the season. Twice that day he detoured to ride around prairie-dog towns and the sight of buffalo skeletons lying in groups was not rare. Alert and contemptuous gray wolves gave him a passing glance, but the coyotes, slinking a little farther off, watched him with more interest. Occasionally he had a shot at antelope and once was successful.

Warned by the gathering dusk he was casting about for the most favorable spot for his blanket and fire when a horseman swung into sight out of a draw and reined in quickly. Bill’s hand fell carelessly to his side while he regarded the stranger, who spoke first, and with a restrained welcoming gladness in his voice. "Howd’y, Stranger! You plumb surprised me."

Bill’s examination told him that the other was stocky, compactly built, with a pleasing face and a "good eye." His age was about thirty and the surface indications were very favorable. "Some surprised myself," he replied. "Ridin’ my way?"

"Far’s th’ house," smiled the other. "Better join us. Couple of buffalo hunters dropped in awhile back."

"They ’ll go a long way before they ’ll find buffalo," Bill responded, suspiciously. Glancing around he readily picked out the rectangular blot in the valley, though it was no easy feat. "Huntin’ or ranchin’?" he inquired in tones devoid of curiosity.

"Ranchin’," smiled the other. "Hefty proposition, up here, I reckon. Th’ wolves ’ll walk in under yore nose. But I ain’t seen no Injuns."

"You will," was the calm reply. "You ’ll see a couple, first; an’ then th’ whole cussed tribe. _They_ ain’t got no buffalo no more, neither."

Buck glanced at him sharply and thought of the hunters, but he nodded. "Yes. But if that couple don’t go back?" he asked, referring to the Indians.

"Then you ’ll save a little time."

"Well, let ’em come. I ’m here to stay, one way or th’ other. But, anyhow, I ain’t got no border ruffians like they have over in th’ Panhandle. They ’re worse ’n Injuns."

"Yes," agreed Bill. "Th’ war ain’t ended yet for some of them fellers. Ex-guerrillas, lots of ’em."

Continue Reading →

The preface frames the book as a series of stories told to a visitor by Red, the under-foreman, who finally "thawed" and recounted the outfit's early exploits. The narrator admits the cowboys were "a more secretive and bashful crowd" about their own achievements, establishing a deliberate narrative distance. Mulford then opens with Buck Peters building a sod dugout on Snake Creek in the 1870s, acting as agent for an eastern syndicate that had bought a "ranch" entirely unfamiliar with cattle. The excerpts show a world where survival depends on reading the land: the valley's arroyos, rock walls, and timber shelter herds during a Norther, while warm winds and rain threaten to ice over the grass. The writing is specific about geography and weather, grounding the action in practical ranch management rather than romanticized gunplay.

A Narrator Gathering Dusty Tales

The preface is the only section written in first person, and it carefully establishes how the stories reached print. Red, the under-foreman, tells the tales "during the last few weeks of my stay," and the narrator promises they will follow "as closely as possible, in chronological order." This framing device explains why the book jumps between episodes: "Between some of them the interval is short; between others, long; the less interesting stories that should fill those gaps may well be omitted." The excerpts do not show any further appearances of this narrator, so the reader encounters the rest of the book as third-person narratives. The effect is that of a campfire session where the listener pieces together the outfit's history from fragments, with the taciturn cowboys themselves controlling what gets told.

Winter's Grip on the Range

The excerpts devote considerable detail to a devastating Norther and its aftermath. One character describes being trapped under a wagon for "'most three weeks, livin' on raw meat after our firewood gave out," with a drift fifteen feet high. Buck Peters is marked by the season: "His daily rides over the range, the reports of his men since that deadly storm had done a great deal to lift the sagging weight that rested on his shoulders." The narrative explains that the valley saved the herds because its "steep ridges of rock" checked the southward drift, and "by some trick of the rushing winds" the grasses had been "whirled clean of snow." This attention to the mechanics of survival—how arroyos and timber break the wind, how rain before freeze threatens ice—shows a writer more interested in the practical challenges of ranching than in shootouts. The cowboys' speech, rendered in dialect, treats the cold with grim humor: "Huh! Cold? That cub don't know nothin'—mebby he will when he grows up, but I dunno, at that. Idyho!"

Voice and Vernacular on the Page

Mulford uses distinct registers for narration and dialogue. The third-person passages are formal and descriptive: "Following the Norther came another menace and one which easily might surpass the worst efforts of the blizzard." In contrast, the cowboys speak in a heavy dialect marked by dropped g's, contractions like "mebby," and colloquial rhythms: "I grab for th' grub, an' while I 'm eatin' I demands to know where I am." The excerpts show that the narrator's voice in the preface is educated and observant, while the body of the text shifts between this polished style and the rougher speech of the characters. This alternation creates a layered reading experience: the reader is always aware that these stories have been filtered through a literate intermediary. The illustrations by Maynard Dixon, mentioned on the title page, are not reproduced in the excerpts, but the text itself paints vivid visual scenes—"a drift shamefully high about a mile northeast of us, an' from th' smoke comin' out of it I knew it was th' bunkhouse."

The excerpts offer no complete plot arcs, only episodes of survival and labor. Readers should expect a collection of linked vignettes rather than a single narrative, with the Bar-20 crew's personalities emerging gradually through action and dialect. Pay attention to how the landscape—the valley, the arroyos, the snow—functions as both obstacle and ally. The book rewards those who read for the texture of daily ranch life and the laconic humor of men who have weathered worse.

The rain kept drumming on the windows that afternoon, and I found myself thinking about how Mulford’s cowboys told their stories sideways, never quite saying what mattered. That same quiet stubbornness seemed to live in the men of The Empire Makers: A Romance of Adventure and War in South Africa — Text and Context, which I picked up afterwards almost without deciding to. The dust and heat felt familiar, just another kind of range.