 It started out with a bet between Jimmy Wakely, Hollywood singer and movie star, and Rolla Goodnight, Oklahoma cattle rancher and cousin of legendary Charles Goodnight. Frank 'Pistol Pete' Easton, Rolla's life long friend, provides the horse and the Colt .45, and Rolla's twenty-year-old grandson is the young man they are betting on.
Jerry Van Meter must ride from Guthrie, Oklahoma to Hollywood, California in fifty days, taking with him only what he can carry on his horse. Jerry sets out on May 4, 1946 bound for Hollywood -- the hard way....
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Excerpt from Hollywood the Hard Way
~ Chapter 14 ~
[On day 26 of his journey, near the top of the Continental Divide in New Mexico]
 The fire burned low. A coyote howled. Jerry added some wood and glanced at his nervous Osage Indian mare. These mountains were coyote country; Jerry had spotted packs of them during the day. Every night one would begin to howl, like now, then quickly be joined by a host of others, all together sounding like tormented cries from hell. By comparison, the hoot owl's call from a nearby tree sounded sweet. In between their howls, Jerry heard sound he'd grown to know.
Wind whistled through the tall pines. The campfire snapped and popped, adding its rhythm to Mother Nature's primitive song -- reassuring familiar sounds that signaled the end of another day on the trail. Jerry appreciated the fire. After night settled, it was the cowboy's savior, comfort and succor for a solitary soul. ...All of a sudden he sat straight up on his bedroll. A sixth sense pricked the hair on the back of his neck. Movement. Something or someone. He rose and with the efficient movements of a seasoned cowboy made a few adjustments to his camp. Jerry grabbed his Winchester and disappeared silently into the darkness. Away from the campfire his all-black clothes helped him blend into the night...three sets of footsteps. The foot falls told him that three men had fanned out in a circle and were sneaking up on his camp from the northwest. A cold, biting wind of ten, maybe fifteen miles an hour whipped steady from the same direction as the sound of branches breaking and boots landing softly on rock-strewn ground.
...Jerry's right hand lifted imperceptibly off the Colt .45 in his holster, his fingers moving slightly. "You, hombre! Toss my hat back on the bedroll, nice and slow. NOW!" As the tall mean-looking desperado reached up to remove Jerry's Stetson from his head, the second thief went for his holstered pistol, and the fat one made a move for his knife.
 Jerry's reaction was lightning fast. "Fill your hand, you sonofabitch!" The words came out automatically; he was surprised at the fury and fierceness in his voice. The fat man's knife never cleared its sheath and the thief's gun was barely out of his holster when Jerry drew his Colt and fired.
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