I wrote the story of Hopalong Hillary almost 30 years ago, in 1994.
I never published, but I am thinking of changing my mind.
The story is a bit off my beaten path because there is a touch of politics involved. But I wrote it strictly for a few laughs.
I am posting the prologue and the first chapter, to see the response I receive. I may or may not publish the story on Amazon.
If you think you may be interested, take a gander.
Hopalong Hillary, Cow-Person
by
H.D. Ingles
Copyright (©) 1994, 2022
Prologue
This story is completely fictional. All the places and people are fictional. Except, of course, for well-known stuff. For example, who hasn’t heard of Arkansas?
Once you’ve read a little of this fascinating tale, if you think on it, these characters have to be fictional. After all, who in their right mind could believe that people like these actually exist?
Anyway, sit back and hold on. Forget about the fables. Forget about all of the movies you’ve seen. Prepare yourself to read how the Old West was really won. Prepare to read about the woman who tamed the Old West. Prepare to hear the real story of Hopalong Hillary, Cow-Person.
Author’s note: I am fully aware that the last paragraph completely contradicts the preceding paragraphs. But what the heck? Politicians do that kind of thing all the time.
Down From The Mountain
The year is 1892. A time for change. The Year of The Woman. (It’s a shame they couldn’t vote.)
She sat atop her steed, who stood atop the mountain. Actually, the thing was only about 500 feet high, and most people in those parts called it a hill. Anyway, she sat atop her steed, who stood atop the mountain, and she gazed down into the vast land below, wondering what wonderful changes she could bring about.
She had ridden hard and she had traveled far. Her horse was tired. But she didn’t care; she was about to make a name for herself. (That’s the way they do it in Arkansas.)
Author’s note: Before I go any further, let me explain that no comments about Arkansas have anything at all to do with the good people of that state. I am only talking about some power-mad woman who was not born in Arkansas, and her nutty horse.
As she had ridden along the long, old, lonely, dusty trail, she had thought long and hard about the name she was going to make for herself. And if she were going to make a name for herself, she needed to be called by a catchy name. So, on one of those cold, lonely nights on the long, etc. trail, it hit her what her name should be. From this day forward, Hillary Roadhog would be “Hopalong.” It had a nice ring to it. And besides, it was a good, hokey name that all the rubes would fall for.
The New Name
The next day, while riding along, our heroine (heroin?) began to repeat her new name over and over again, “Hopalong Roadhog. Hopalong Roadhog. …” (I think you get the idea here.) Hopalong liked the basic idea, but that name just didn’t quite have the ring to it that she was looking for. It was a terrible thought, but Hopalong realized that “Hopalong Roadhog” left something to be desired. But Hopalong was proud of the name Roadhog and she didn’t want to give it up, as she was a Roadhog from way back.
Then it hit her. She would do what the Army does. She knew about what the Army does because a guy back home in Arkansas told her about it. The guy didn’t really know first-hand about the Army, because he had an important date in England and couldn’t make it to camp. But that’s another story. Anyway, Hopalong decided that, in Army lingo, her name would be “Roadhog, Hillary.” (Nobody she knew had actually been in the Army, so she wasn’t aware of the fact that, in the Army, her name would have been “Roadhog, Hillary (NMI).”)
Author’s note: All of this name business gets sort of complicated, so the best thing all the way around is to just go along with it. By the way, just in case you don’t know, “NMI” means “No Middle Initial.”
Swell
This was good. This was great. This was really swell. Actually, Hopalong never called anything “swell”, but it was something hokey that all the rubes would fall for. So, to make a long story short, Hillary Roadhog was now “Hopalong Hillary, Cow-Person.” It had a nice ring to it. It was really swell. Besides that, when she attained her ultimate goal, her new initials would be just perfect. “HRH” had an even better ring to it than “Hopalong”.
Author’s note: I warned you that all of this name business gets sort of complicated, so just go along with it
Anyway, Hopalong was not here just for the heck of it. Hopalong knew that she had a serious and honorable (and profitable) mission to perform. She knew that she must save those small towns out there from whatever it was that made them the way they were. Hopalong was smart and she knew that, if you look deeply enough, you can always find something to save somebody from. Even if they don’t much want to be saved.
Hopalong knew that nothing could stand in her way. She knew that it was only a matter of time before she would also be known as the Robin (Robbin’?) Hood of the Old West.
Mere men would be daunted by her beauty. (With respect to that one, we won’t linger on the fact that there weren’t a lot of really great babes in those parts.) Men would be intimidated by her wit and charm. Men would be terrified of her overwhelming intelligence. In short, the suckers wouldn’t stand a chance.
Hopalong Needed a Flunky
Then it hit her. Hopalong needed a flunky. All the big-name male cow-person people had flunkies. It was true. It was a fact. Hopalong needed a flunky. It was imperative that Hopalong obtain a flunky. But who? That was the big question. Who? (Or was the big question “Whom?” I don’t think so, but I like to cover my tracks.) Anyway, Hopalong did some cogitating on the matter. She wondered if she could get an established flunky. That could save a lot of break-in time. But who? (Whom?)
Gene Autry had Froggy. Maybe she could entice him. No, that was no good. Negotiations in Europe could become a little tricky.
Roy Rogers had Gabby Hayes. Maybe she could entice him. No, that was no good. The AARP had too many votes to call one of their kind a flunky.
The Lone Ranger had Tonto. He was definitely out. A real hot potato there.
Red Ryder had Little Beaver. Damn, that posed the same problem as Tonto.
Co-Partner-Associate-Aide-Person
Then Hopalong had a thought. A darned good thought, even if she did say so herself. Hopalong could get a girl-Native-American-female-young-person. But the girl-Native-etc. wouldn’t be a flunky. Hopalong couldn’t have a female flunky, even if she were just a damned Indian kid. Hopalong would have to promote the damned kid to co-partner-associate-aide-person. Hopalong would also make sure that the girl-Native-etc. was quite young. That way, if the damned Indian kid got any big ideas, Hopalong could easily stomp her. (In a humanitarian way, of course.) That would work. Yes, by George (Georgette?), that would work.
Hopalong cogitated over the prospect of having a girl-Native-American-female-young-person as a co-partner-associate-aide-person. Hopalong cogitated long and hard over this. Hopalong always liked a good cogitate. Mere men sometimes had a thought, but Hopalong was Woman; she always had a cogitate.
Author’s note: Please keep in mind here that Hopalong’s “Woman” was not quite in the same league as Peggy Lee’s version: “W-O-M-A-N”. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, more’s the pity. Anyway, back to this exciting story.
Why It Wouldn’t Work
Then it hit Hopalong. Using the Indian kid wouldn’t work. In her very organized and logical mind, Hopalong laid out the reasons why it wouldn’t work.
Reason one: “Hopalong Hillary” wouldn’t get nearly as much print space in the newspapers as “girl-Native-American-female-young-person co-partner-associate-aide-person.”
Reason two: Hopalong still needed a flunky. (I think you can understand that.)
Reason three: A flunky, by definition, had to be a male-person.
Reason four: Hopalong didn’t want people to say, “Here comes Hopalong and her Beaver.”
So, with her razor-sharp mind and instinctive ability to make snap decisions, Hopalong nixed the idea of having a girl-Native-American-female-young-person as a co-partner-associate-aide-person. (I’m right thankful for that, as I was getting tired of repeating all of that mess.)
Hopalong would just have to find a male-person flunky. That’s all there was to it.
So, with the resolve that only Woman can have, Hopalong decided that she would immediately go on a quest for her flunky.
Today a Flunky, Tomorrow the World.
Hopalong was excited at the prospect. Today a flunky, tomorrow the world.
Hopalong’s horse also got caught up in the excitement. Especially after Hopalong cracked him on the rear with a (humanitarian) leather whip.
The mighty horse reared up and stood proudly on his haunches, knowing that he would soon ride his master-mistress-person to fame.
Author’s note: Even the extremely intelligent Hopalong always had trouble with this “master/mistress” bit. Hopalong just couldn’t get past the fact that some words just seem to have multiple meanings, which were, no doubt, started by sexist male-persons. And this tricky little problem was somewhat exacerbated by Hopalong’s not-always-so-trusty-steed, which we will learn about later. Anyway, back to this exciting story.
Suddenly, the silence of the vast land was disturbed by a thud and a flurry of language not appropriate for the young reader.
Bubba
Hopalong got up off the ground and dusted herself off. She walked to the front of her mighty steed, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “Bubba, you horse’s ass, if you ever do that again, I’m going to kick you where it hurts.”
Bubba said, “I’m sorry, master-mistress-person, it will never happen again. I am your servant and your will is my will.”
Author’s note: So it sounds far-fetched. But, if you think you can handle this story, you may as well go the distance and handle talking horses.
Hopalong glared at her steed and said, “It had better not happen again, Buster. Now get down so I can mount you.”
“Do I have to? That’s what camels do. I’m a horse. I’m not a damned camel. I don’t want to do what camels do.”
“Bubba, do what you’re told.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Bubba, I’m losing patience.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Bubba!” Hopalong gave Bubba her steeliest steely-eyed gaze.
The horse folded his legs and went to the ground.
“That’s a good boy, Bubba. I knew you would be a good boy. I think I’ll give you a nice little cube of Nutra-Sweet.”
“I don’t want no Nutra-Sweet. I want sugar.”
“I know what’s good for you. I’ll give you what I think best. So shut up, you stupid horse.”
I am Woman
Hopalong put her leg over Bubba and got on his back.
Bubba just sat there, mumbling incoherently about Nutra-Sweet and camels.
“Shut up, Bubba. Now be a good horsey and stand up, or you won’t get your Nutra-Sweet.”
“I hate Nutra-Sweet. I want sugar.”
“Damn it, Bubba, stand up. I have things to do. I am Woman.”
As Bubba was struggling to get back onto his feet, he was still mumbling something about damned camels and Nutra-Sweet.
Hopalong chose to ignore the ravings of an overweight horse.
Bubba wasn’t getting on his feet fast enough for Hopalong so, knowing that actions tend to be more effective than words, she gave him a (humanitarian) crack on the rear with her (humanitarian) leather whip and threatened to put him on a diet.
Bubba got up right quick.
Hopalong sat there, atop her steed, etc.
The horse was still mumbling something about damned camels and Nutra-Sweet.
Hopalong still chose to ignore him.
Hopalong looked out at the vast blue sky and, in her clear and melodious (and somewhat manly/womanly/personally) voice, she shouted a phrase soon to be known over the entire West, “I am Woman.”
Then, sitting straight in the saddle, with a firm grasp of her goals and what she intended to accomplish, Hopalong said, “Move it, you fat, lazy, excuse for a horse.”
Bubba began to walk forward. He had been inspired by the masterful/mistressful (is that a word?) tone of Hopalong’s voice. And, to be completely honest, he had also been inspired by one more (humanitarian) crack on his rear.
Hopalong came down from the mountain.
