The sun was beatin' down hotter than a hog wearing wool when the Hopwood Gang rode into town. The streets were deserted. The townsfolk knew when the Hopwood boys were on the move, the best course was to leave well enough alone--iffin' you wanted to avoid being shot dead and left for vulture bait. As Hank, the youngest of the gang, stepped through the well-worn doors of the saloon, the piano player froze still as a possum and the silent patrons looked on in fear as the sheriff slid off his barstool. "We don't want no trouble," he said, looking straight at Hank, his hand hovering near the handle of his six-shooter. "Don't you worry," Hank said, brandishing his two wiener dogs, Lucky and Sancho. "We're just here for the... More >>>