Muffled by winter wind, the distant thundering rumble of a 1948 Indian is heard on the cold air; the deep throb of it shakes the Tavern walls and grows slowly louder, finally coming to a rumbling halt in the parking lot just outside.

Shaking snow from a wide-brimmed bush-ranger's hat, a tall, handsome stranger enters, knocking the snow from his hand-tooled snakeskin boots. He sidles up to the bar, hoping for a glimpse of the Gaelic barmaid, but it seems she has left town.

Nettled, he orders a double single malt with a Guinness chaser and limps over to the far corner of the hearth, settling down with his honey-hued 1953 Dreadnought, and starts singing quietly about some cowpokes way high up in the Sierry Petes.