Tried to get my track gang together but only Finney even has a phone and when he showed up with three jugs of some god forsaken swill and no tools I knew I wasn't getting anywhere fast. When I told him I no longer sip straight from the jug he just smiled, sat down on the nearest stump and had a swig. Never said a word. He might still be there, I don't know. Only the devil knows where the other rogues are. Maybe word will get around to whatever dens of inequity and ill repute they are slacking at these days and there will be a spare dime found. I guess I could try smoke signals. Geez, what's with people anymore? I'm the last man standing. And I'm not exactly leanin' too straight altogether myself these days. Looks like the only way I'm going to get any spikes driven is to get my too bony behind on the ground and piece it together. With a pillow behind. In the meantime I gathered up my passenger fleet just to reacquaint myself. I also have a real nice set of grays that go with my dad 's #10. Kind of like looking in your tackle box and looking at the lures. It seems it's half the fun at times. As always, Cheers!
