A biography of the legendary golf champion explores his private life, the source of his motivation, and his personal difficulties in later life

Hogan

By Curt Sampson

Rutledge Hill Press

Copyright © 1996 Curt Sampson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781558533875
CHAPTER 1



The two riders on the Deep Creek trail had the morning to themselves. Within the range of their attention nothing moved.

The vast sky arched blue and empty to the horizon. Before them the trail was a white, winding line across the face of the desert plain. On both sides of the trail the bunch-grass levels stretched far toward the blue hills, and in the bottoms along Deep Creek were grassy meadows and a scattering of willow and cottonwood.

Behind them, looming suddenly from the desert, was isolated Deep Creek Range, a fifty-square-mile group of mountains. Its lower slopes were naked rock or rock clad with the sparse, dry-land brush of the middle desert. Along the crests there appeared at intervals the darker tufts of pine tops.

Within the rough circle of Deep Creek Range lay the basin of the creek, a high plateau heavily timbered and slashed by the canyons and valleys of Deep and Cave creeks, carrying a fine stand of virgin timber. The high meadows were rich with grass, well watered and green; the inner slopes of the mountains, except for a few places where lightning-started fires had struck, were thickly clad with ponderosa pine and fir.

There was only one road through the Deep Creek Range, a long abandoned trail used by west-bound pioneers and later, briefly, by a stage line. No wagon had used that road in many years, only the riders of the B-Bar.

"New folks in town." Bill Coffin volunteered the information after three miles of silence and chill morning. "A good-lookin' blonde."

Clay Bell drew on his cigarette, found it dead, and after pinching it to be sure, tossed it into the desert. Here there was no danger of fire but the habit remained from forest living.

"A couple of lumberjacks," Coffin added. "And some city man . . . all duded up."

"You talk too much." Clay took out the makings and began to build a smoke. He glanced over at Coffin, fine lines of remembered laughter showing at the corners of his eyes. "What would lumberjacks be doing in Tinkersville?"

"Search me." Bill Coffin was a lean, strongly built young cowhand, a good man with a rope or horse. "What would a beautiful blonde do there?"

"You mean you didn't offer any suggestions?"

"No chance. Just seen her, then she was gone."

"Smart girl."

Tinkersville sprawled in ungainly, clapboarded charm on the flatland near the Creek. One street of false-fronted stores, and a half-dozen streets of dwellings, few of them painted, some of adobe. On the outskirts, near some ancient adobe ruins, three youngsters hunted Indians, and from the shouts of "bang-bang" they were having good hunting.

As the two riders neared the outskirts, a big man on a gray horse rode past them, his face stiff.

Coffin grinned at Bell. "Schwabe ain't forgot that whippin' you gave him. Looks mighty unhappy with you."

The street was lazy and sun-filled. A hen picked at an apple core in front of the general store. A dog lay sprawled in the dust, soaking up sun. Two men in high-heeled boots, hats tipped back, sat on the edge of the boardwalk, another leaned against the post of the ramada smoking a cigarette. He slanted his eyes at them and lifted a negligent hand in greeting.

Clay Bell regarded the street with pleasure. He was an easy-going man with the wide shoulders and lean hips of a desert rider, a man who looked cool, competent, and ready, yet one in whom behind the quiet of his eyes the humor lay close to the surface. He wore his gun with the same casual ease that he wore his hat or his shirt.

He knew the people in this town and he liked them. He had come here a stranger, now he was a part of something. It had been a long time before that since he had belonged anywhere or to anything.

A big man in a plaid wool shirt worn outside his pants came out of the Homestake. He wore "high-water" pants, rolled up halfway to his knees, and laced boots. It was the unfailing brand of the lumberjack.

Curiosity tinged with worry touched Bell . . . the only timber within miles of Tinkersville was on his own place, at Deep Creek.

A clatter of running hoofs sounded on the loose planks of the bridge at the far end of town, then the rattle of a buckboard. It rounded into the street and a couple of fine blacks brought it down toward the riders at a spanking trot.

The buckboard drew up sharply opposite them, its trailing dust cloud sifting over and around it, then settling into the like dust of Tinkersville's main street.

A big man in laced boots tossed the reins to his companion and sprang lightly from the buckboard. His dark, well-tailored suit and white, stiff-brimmed hat were in marked contrast to the nondescript range clothes of the men along the street.

There was hard, brusque confidence in the way he came toward them. His every action spoke of impatience and assurance. He had seen Clay Bell sitting his horse and had noted the B-Bar brand.

He lifted a hand. "You, there!"

Bill Coffin nudged Bell. "Look what's comin'," he said softly. "Wants to make talk."

The big man's smooth-shaven, white-skinned face was eastern, but Bell knew instinctively this man was no tenderfoot. Not, at least, in the usual acceptance of the term. Bell waited, his lean face offering nothing, his eyes measuring the man.

"Are you Bell?"

Several passers-by drifted to a halt and turned hopefully toward the loud voice. There was a challenge and tone in the voice that seemed to promise trouble, and the citizenry of Tinkersville were interested in trouble. Aside from vague talk of gold prospects, cattle prices, and the way somebody carried on at somebody else's dance, there was little to talk about.

Clay Bell let the man come up to his horse before he replied. Even then he held it a little, letting the man look up at him. "That's my name," he said.

He struck a match on the pommel and lifted it to his cigarette, cupping the match in his left hand. He did not move the right hand, which was a way he had. Old Sam Tinker had noticed that way, and knew what it meant. Bill Coffin had drawn his own conclusions.

Bell waited deliberately, not liking the stranger or his abrupt manner. He had crossed the street as if he owned it, addressed Bell as if he were a Digger Indian.

"You're the man who runs those B-Bar cattle up on Deep Creek?"

"I reckon." Clay studied the man calmly, noting the strong, almost brutal jaw, the powerfully boned face, and the taut white skin. There was no warmth in the eyes. They were impatient eyes, domineering.

"Well, get 'em out of there! I'm logging off that mountain and the flatland beyond it. Starting next week."

"My cattle like it there." Bell studied the end of his cigarette. "I'm not figuring on moving them as long as they are happy. As for logging off that piece, you aren't going to, now or any other time."

He spoke quietly, but with a cool confidence that irritated the big man. Clay Bell had his own brand of assurance, and he had won it along trails far from Tinkersville.

He sat his saddle now, liking the warmth of the morning sun after the chill of the early ride. He liked the town, the shabby red of the brick buildings, the two squat, powerful structures of gray stone,...