There was a band out on the highway.

It kicked up dust the entire way into town: the wagons had been lashed tight to several stout men because, apparently, the Jewish fella had fed the horses some sort of San Francisco fire water and they ate each other or something because it was the Wild West and that sort of thing happened. The period when the untamed west met the white man was simply a Stephen King Chinese food dream.

So, they had tied their equipment to the roadies. Only Bobby had kept his horse, but he kept spurring the thing up slopes trying to catch the best light for his haircut; he wasn’t much help.

The band dismounted in front of the saloon and entered through the swinging doors.

EEE-eee, EEE-eee!

They fanned out behind Garcia, who announced to the bar, “Umm, hey. Everyone, uh, could just–”


“Yeah, thanks, Phil. So, we’re–”

EEE-eee, EEE-eee!

“–the band direct from Abilene.”

“Didn’t Abilene burn down?” The bartender called out.

“You have no idea, like, how much wood they used building that place. One spark, and–”

EEE-eee, EEE-eee!

“–the whole thing’s up in…Bobby, you’re killing me with the doors, pal.”

So Bobby went outside, but then came back in really quick because one of the horses had survived and calmed down a bit and everything was cool and then Billy punched it in the horse-dick and there was an incident.