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The upsetting sight of Shiloh reduced to a pile of steaming rubble (in a matte painting) is only the beginning of exemplary episode full of emotional upheaval. Expert script by Robert Van Scoyk runs the gamut from desolation and despair to hope and recovery, testing the acting chops of the entire cast of regulars, who come through with flying colors. There's also a climactic shootout at a remote cabin and a twisty whodunit finale. Story's thoughtful statement, very much in keeping with the day's anti-establishment trends, advocates the rights of independent ranchers, who live on the land and are its natural stewards, against the greedy Eastern combines that only seek to exploit. There were a number of fine episodes in season eight, but none better than this one.

The Chinese girl who accompanies Trampas during some hard times is played by Japanese actress Miyoshi Umeki, which, in ethnic terms, is the equivalent of a cowboy wearing his left boot on his right ear. Compounding the felony is Umeki's calculated, kittenish performance, that doesn't click with McClure. Then there's the absurdly hard to swallow plot. Busy TV westerns director Andrew V. McLaglen had his hands full keeping the show on the road, which he manages to do rather well, considering the circumstances. Borden Chase was given credit for the story (such as it is), but it seems clearly patterned after the 1960 Audie Murphy film "Hell Bent for Leather," which was pretty far-fetched in its own right but feels like neo-realism compared to this.

A rare screening of this obscure Mary Pickford title was one of the most anticipated events from the 2014 Cinefest in Syracuse, N.Y., but, as is so often the case, rarity doesn't equate with quality. The film, lamely directed by James Kirkwood, lacks technique. Kirkwood keeps the actors grouped in tight bunches, more like a faithful sheepdog than a movie director, reflecting none of the dynamic energy of films from the same period produced under the auspices of D.W. Griffith, Cecil B. DeMille and Thomas Ince. The lovely and entrancing Pickford is always worth watching, but her role here doesn't provide enough dramatic weight, and nothing she does lingers in the memory except for a lively scrap with her real-life brother, Jack Pickford, who plays a bratty villager. Mary's rather homely sister, Lottie, also has a role, making this picture perhaps the only extant example of all three Pickford siblings appearing in the same film.

Invigorating yarn manages big scale on a limited budget, reflecting the expertise of director William Witney, a past master at making chicken salad out of questionable ingredients. The plot is baldly lifted from Kipling's Captains Courageous, except that the rich, spoiled, bad boy overdue for tough love is changed to a rich, spoiled, very bad man. Plutocrat Paul Leland (played by Linden Chiles) wallows in his cocoon of privilege, cozily certain that the world is for sale and he's got the price. Script's hopeful contention that hard knocks can awaken the humanity in even a snob as big as Leland is at least a thought worth holding. Gregarious Slim Pickens, long before his famous campfire scene in "Blazing Saddles," plays the cattle drive cook.

McClure's carefree entrance is iconic: Trampas slowly rides uphill with a leg lazily crossed over his saddle horn and idly whistling a tune. Trouble awaits though the closer he gets to childhood chum Jason Crowder. The manipulative bunco artist Crowder (played diabolically well by Burr DeBenning) is so egotistical that his real joy derives more from the power and control he can exert through his con scheme than the money he can swindle. Talkative drama doesn't have a great deal going for it apart from the performances of McClure, DeBenning and Susan Oliver as Crowder's loyal, miserable wife, but it's enough. Husky Scott Brady, former star of "Shotgun Slade," a bottom-feeder from the heyday of western series, plays Crowder's ramrod.

The shared affection between Lee J. Cobb's Judge Garth and Roberta Shore as his daughter Betsy helped the series gain a foothold with family audiences that most westerns couldn't obtain. Their interaction here is more involving than the plot's vanishing corpse gimmick and ensuing melodramatic complications. Garth wants Betsy to have a finishing school education based on some vague Victorian notion about taking her place in society. Betsy thinks his sense of propriety is misplaced and can't understand what learning piano sonatas and the correct way to curtsy has to do with living on a cattle ranch. This conflict puts a strain on their relationship, which the viewer hopes will survive undamaged in the end.

Very modest production guest-starring non-household names Dennis Cooney and Beverlee McKinsey emerges as spicy little drama, with a prickly, it-could-happen-to-you plot line that gains tension precipitously under Anton Leader's direction. Unknowns McKinsey and Cooney fill their deftly written parts admirably: She's sympathetic as a loose woman desperately snatching at a chance for security, and his greedy, mendacious character is cordially hateful. McClure, squirming under the tight frame he's caught in, supplies all the star wattage the episode needs, and veteran dyspeptic heavy Ken Lynch grunts on the good guys' side for a change as a weary but conscientious lawman.

Revamped, renamed series opens for season nine with spaghetti western theme music, a broad, black hat for The Virginian, a mustache for Trampas and a new owner for Shiloh in the person of Col. Alan MacKenzie, a rugged ex-British army officer (played by former MGM swashbuckler Stewart Granger) with a fresh set of principles for running a ranch and the resolve to back it up with his own fists and firearms. This leaves an awful lot of down time for Drury and McClure, a fact noticed by series fans concerned that too much had changed. Potentially action-filled story goes in a calmer direction, but with compensatory sizable parts for screen beauties Elizabeth Ashley and Martha Hyer.

Soapy story slides into banality on a surface of convenient coincidences. Bethel Leslie is quite good though as an exhausted woman, worn down by years of drudgery on an Indian reservation, who doesn't relish the difficult task of re-adjusting to white society. Western fans will be intrigued by a rare, late-career appearance by former prolific cowboy star Tim Holt, who'd hung up his spurs with the death of the B-western in the fifties. Holt, in his prime, had found time for roles in classic films of John Ford, Orson Welles and John Huston, and he's perfectly acceptable here as a rancher more than a little irrational where Indians are concerned.

Joseph Pevney, a top Universal director in the fifties, when he worked with such luminaries as James Cagney, Joan Crawford and Debbie Reynolds, exhibits cinematic flair and sound judgment as he guides young Tim Matheson through a challenging role in this cuddly little story that casts a warm glow. Jim Horn's attraction to a pregnant abandoned wife (played by girl-next-door dreamboat Darleen Carr) spirals into an emotional bond after he assists her delivery. He thinks the compassion he's feeling must be true love. But is it really? Pevney's tasteful direction and Matheson's believable confusion keep the viewer engaged.

Perennial bush-browed heavy Jack Elam has a field day as nouveau riche dirt-scratcher Harve Yost in adroit episode that carries a message but doesn't bludgeon the viewer with it. Instead of using his windfall to improve his farm, as everyone expects, Harve tries to fulfill his fantasies. He spends lavishly to flaunt his wealth and schemes to grab more. Harve's me-first attitude, symbolic of the cynical Vietnam War era, places him on a collision course with The Virginian. Drury's character always valued his allegiance to Shiloh above himself, and he measured his worth by his ability to protect the ranch's welfare, not in money.

Attempt at trendy, flower power statement trips over its good intentions due to a constantly shifting tone that throws the actors off-stride. But even a more balanced script than the one writer Herb Meadow came up with mightn't have worked. James A. Watson seems too level-headed for the poetic, Thoreau-style Utopian he's playing. On the other end of the scale, William Shatner, never one to hold anything back, sloppily devours his role as the bigoted crook. Episode's best scene -- a vividly staged stampede -- arrives early, and provides McClure with another of his many comedy highlights from season eight: Trampas gets caught in the middle of the rumble clad only in red drawers.

Thick message drama would be a tough sit without Drury, McClure, earnest Tim Matheson and Charles Robinson as the brave with no battles to fight. Princeton grad Robinson gives a scrupulous performance that captures the spiritual essence of his character, and he even cuts a mean ceremonial dance. The rest of the actors labor under a coarse script that concocts a small western town populated almost exclusively by lynch-happy racists. Chipper Henry Jones is reduced to playing a crude heavy, and the normally capable Charles Aidman is insufferable as a windy barfly with no visible means of support who never runs out of whiskey money or hot air.

Two big shootouts bookend trim morality tale. Craggy Ford Rainey is featured as Marshal Floyd Buckman, a has-been, living on past laurels, who's too stubborn to admit he may have blundered. But unlike the ambitious lawyer who covets his job (played by pre-"Batman" Adam West), Buckman has integrity. The ember of hope that the old star packer's troubled conscience will restore his better nature in time to help The Virginian save Randy from the noose provides most of the plot's dramatic tension. Country character actor Shug Fisher plays an exuberant Buffalo Bill-style huckster who's the polar opposite of the stuffy Buckman. Fisher brings his symbolic character more fully to life than is written in the script.

Fairly edifying season eight closer rewards on several levels. On the surface, former glistening teeny bopper ideal Tab Hunter steals the show with his wildly-against-type portrayal of a filthy outlaw. More thought-provoking is the role of restless saloon chanteuse Sally Anne, played and sung with authority by Julie Gregg. Sally Anne refuses to tie herself to emotional commitments (which Trampas has learned and Jim Horn will soon discover), preferring instead to live hand-to-mouth in pursuit of her musical ambitions. Time has been kind to the character. Sally Anne's abiding devotion to her talent may once have appeared selfish but is now identifiably feminist.

Former Republic serial director William Witney was accustomed to keeping lame plots on the move, but he didn't stand a chance with this episode's lousy script, which denies most of the cast anything interesting to say or do. Even resourceful troupers Bernie Hamilton and Anthony Caruso find nothing playable in their characters, which leaves little hope for lesser talents Gary Collins and Steve Carlson. Apart from the unsinkable McClure, the only actor to keep a nose above water is Lee Kroeger as river trollop Marcy McLister. Peering mischievously from under a plume of fool's gold hair, Kroeger adds naughty sex appeal to an episode that offers little else to entertain.

Decorous, open-air early season episode has everything except what it needs most -- a script with logically developed characterizations. Impish Burgess Meredith, who usually landed on his feet in any role, is hard to take here as a supposedly once proud, prosperous rancher who accepts handouts from Clay Grainger oblivious to what a parasite he's become. His foolish son, played by Ben Murphy, is equally lacking in self-awareness, ripping off everyone in sight but totally clueless about the direction his petty larcenous bent is leading him. Brandon De Wilde, as Meredith's honest, sensible other son, comes off better, bringing the angular poise of a young Gary Cooper to his part. Environmentalists may be alarmed at script's cross-eyed assertion that uprooting trees is good for farmland.

Grim psychological study, written by Dick Carr and directed by Michael Caffey, features a showy performance by gifted lost soul Peter Deuel, who plays Denny Todd, a footloose gunman fanatically devoted to the Graingers. The extremely mercurial Denny can be friendly one minute but brutally angry the next, and apt to lash out at any affront. But Denny is far from villainous in the usual sense: He can't help himself, and Carr's script takes the trouble to explain what made him that way. Deuel's fine acting seems to rub off on John McIntire and Jeanette Nolan, who are at their best as Clay and Holly Grainger. Laconic character actor James Griffith makes his single scene count as a decadent hired gun.

Seven years into the series' run, this minor but revealing episode's title could as easily apply to The Virginian as the sullen lone wolf Garrison, played by former pro footballer Shelly Novack. Drury's character identifies a kindred spirit in this isolated individual who keeps to himself and won't be prodded or pushed. Garrison also recognizes the invisible bond between them. In the midst of a struggle, the two men suddenly burst out in gales of laughter, a puzzling moment but clearly cathartic for them both. Drury never shared such a pointed exchange with David Hartman, who laid an egg with his recurring role as philosophical cow puncher David Sutton. Hartman's character was written out of the last act of this, his final appearance in the series, which just about says it all.

Doug McClure had strong enough presence to carry an episode virtually alone when he had to, and in this frayed drama, lazily stitched together from remnants of old plots, he has to. Trampas' bold, problem-solving approach to his amnesia is convincing. That can't be said of storied slinky heavy Dan Duryea, looking about a mile out of his element as a moralistic small rancher, frosted blonde Barbara Anderson as his frustrated daughter and aging child actor Michael Burns as his dunderheaded son. Despite these and other shortcomings, the episode is watchable. Credit belongs to the efficient traffic management of journeyman director Don McDougall and the pearly cinematography of Enzo Martinelli.

Fluffy story that slogs along until its incendiary climax does serve some food for thought. James Daly, known for playing stern authority figures, gets to relax a bit as frontier photographer Dan Sheppard. The forward-thinking Sheppard comes to Shiloh eager to chronicle the working lives of buckaroos, certainly aware that progress will threaten their existence sooner or later. Ironically, "sooner" is represented by the crooked oil speculator Carstairs played by Donald Barry, whose career as a B-western star had long-since vanished. In a similar vein, Drury may have guessed that the golden age of TV westerns was also facing extinction. The Virginian poses for Sheppard's camera with a tight smile.

Flabby yarn doesn't deliver enough rugged action. Verbose script is given to rambling speeches (an uneasy Drury is stuck with one of them) but never gets around to making the racial statement implied by the casting of edgy black actor James Edwards as the washed-up bronco buster. Still, there are a few redeeming surprises, including a transparent depiction of a busy western bordello and an unexpectedly raw ending. The acting temperatures run the spectrum from overheated (Edwards), tepid (John Agar), to unthawed (David Hartman). The lack of rapport between The Virginian and Hartman's tangle-footed David Sutton character is painfully obvious.

The ACLU would be proud of this somber episode's assertion that the law must protect the rights of the guilty as zealously as the innocent if democracy is to thrive. Unfortunately, the point is driven home in the heavy, preachy manner typical of season four. Precise acting keeps the sermon bearable though, with Clu Gulager as the deeply conflicted Ryker, Lee J. Cobb in one of his last appearances as Judge Garth, Harold J. Stone, Claude Akins and the remarkable Leslie Nielsen. Playing a depraved wanderer who casually uses and discards any easy pickings that cross his path, including unprotected women, Nielsen proves he can subvert his stoic image as effectively for drama as could late in his career for comedy in the "Naked Gun" series and movies.

Perceptive drama, one of the high water marks of season four, offers a fresh, feminine slant on Drury's character, courtesy of a crack scenario by Martha Wilkerson. Fetching Joan Staley plays an outlaw's moll who nurses The Virginian through a bout of pneumonia. The disillusioned woman wants above all else to be needed instead of used and is drawn to his civilized decency. But choosing between this reticent stranger who keeps his feelings mostly unspoken and the brazen bandit who'll stop at nothing to hold her is tougher than she expected. Her decision has lacerating impact, and Drury, aware of the script's implications, responds with an affecting performance. Beefy Michael Forest brings swashbuckling brio to the outlaw role.

Stirring outdoor drama builds up a healthy sweat and wears its animal rights advocacy on its sleeve. Robert Culp doesn't shrink from the ugliness of alcohol addiction in his portrayal of the drunken veterinarian Orwell, who's too despondent to recognize that the brutalized stallion in his care holds the key to his redemption. The rancher's daughter who loves him, attractively played by Jena Engstrom, is aware of it though as she fights to tame the wild horse and Orwell's wild demons. The big roundup scene weds newly filmed moments to stock footage. The marriage works because the plucky fast riding of Culp, Engstrom and Randy Boone makes their running inserts blend smoothly into the old master shots.