The west batwing doors swing apart, slammed to their limit by the nose of a huge 1939 Indian motorcycle in full roar, taking a flying leap up from the hearthstone and landing with a graceful, squealing, 270-degree skid which brings it up alongside the jello pool neatly lined up at the edge. A towering, lanky Stranger with a three-day growth of beard slaps the kickstand down with his foot, shuts down the throbbing engine, and swings off the saddle, pausing to unstrap a glistening 1967 Dreadnought from its case. He is wearing a floppy, tawny Stetson that has seen too many miles of road, a kidney-belt decorated with dozens of precious stones, tight jeans, a chamois Wetsern shirt with leather ties, and a long dustjacket, which he pulls off and leaves hanging over the bike's handlebars.

Well, I need a break. There's no sign of thatgal high or low, East or West, near or far. I been through three sets of rings, two brake jobs, eleven tires and about 1300 tanks of fuel. Dang me, I am tired of this shit, of that there is no mistake, I tell ya.

Hey barkeep, ya got any fine dark stuff in that cooler? A quart glass, if you don't mind, with my thanks. Dusty road, long, long, long. Damn. Good stuff. Just charge it to the Reg brothers, wouldja? Pat says its okay. Thanks....