Trail Dust
by Clarence E. Mulford
Red Connors untied his legs, ripped his hat off the ground, and stood up. He remembered as much as he could: for Red, any chapter about the previous life and activities of his friend Gopalong Cassidy was something different from everything else in terms of value and mood; and Red knew more about Gopalung's earlier days than the other people on the farm. He looked at me for a moment, nodded his head in joy, and slowly stepped towards the door. Then he stopped and turned back. "Well, that's the story," he said, and his smile grew. He instinctively clung to his belts and his blue eyes flickered on his freckled face. "That day, downstairs in this country, they grew up hard," he added, and then walked through the door. The story he just told me was a story that I don't want to forget in any detail, and I'm going to write it here for that purpose. I've heard the pieces of this and many allusions before, and I've picked up the idea that whenever action happens, it happens quickly. Now Red has welded it to full shape and continuity. The time to do something is to do it now, and it will be done now. That's the story.
