The driver heard me. “Yes he is a whopper all right” he said “pity help any bitch he mates with”. I had to smile. “Pity me driver. I am the ...itch” I thought. I snapped a lead onto his collar (the dog not the driver) and led him down to the shed and the pens. Cindy followed. “I don’t think the pen will be large enough” I said “he will be too cramped”. Cindy agreed “Tie him up in the shed and I will ring the guy who made the pens and get him to make a bigger one. “Come on boy. I will tie you up. The normal routine was throw the whiskey down your throat in one gulp so that you did not have to endure the god-awful taste of the rotgut usually served at four-bits per shot. But, this time, the whiskey drinker, whom the marshal advised us was the foreman, just stood with the glass in his hand until all of the ranch hands had finished their beer. At that time, he threw down his drink.Instead of setting his shot glass on the bar, he threw it as hard as he could into the mirror behind the bar.. More

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