Solitude. Pure, sweet air. Ridin' the range. Big sunrises. Bigger sunsets. Steers. Thousands of them critters a-kickin' up the dust. Ruby red pepper dust in the sunsets. Ridin' an' ropin' an' brandin'. Ridin' an' brandin' an' ropin'. Good old boys who covered each others backs when rustlers or rattlers snuck up. A pair of Colts with fancy pearl butts on the hip and a hard-hittin' Winchester 73 in the saddle holster. A few bucks a day. Pork and beans cooking over a wood fire. Save them dollars for when you hit civilisation. Ride into town, a-shootin' an' a-hootin' an' a-hollerin'. Get a bath for a dime, a belly full of rye, and a ten-dollar whore who knew how to use her tongue real good! Yep. And the next day, back to the cattle drive with a throbbin' head and a sore pecker. Cross them prairies and fords until you hit the stockyards at Denver. Yep, them Good Old Days.

Denver two hundred and fifty miles. Hank pulled eighteenth gear in his four hundred and eighty horsepower turbocharged Diesel GMC tractor unit. He eased the gas pedal down and glanced at the speedo. Seventy-five. Not bad. In front of him an arrow-straight black ribbon stretched out on the curvy contours of a vast room of cushions; Route 25 to Denver Colorado over the rolling plains of the Mid-West. No smokey bears on this road - nothing for the next hundred miles. One stop for vittles at the remote Bagdad Café and he'd be in Denver by dusk. Crystal Gayle chirped her pretty little heart out on the stereo. Ah, the boys in them Good Old Days didn't get stereo in their wagons.

Yep. Being a cowboy these days was mighty like in the time of the old West - only better. A cattle drive now meant something rather different. He'd got forty tons of cows right behind him - they were rock-hard in the freezer trailer; better than kicking up forty tons of choking dust in front. And the only ropin' an' ridin' he ever did was when one of his girlfriends came over kinky after a bottle of Jack Daniels. OK, she may have had a tattoo, but she sure drew the line at branding.
   In his rearview mirror, Hank caught a flash of sunlight reflecting on something, miles back, on the crest of a hill. He reached for his CB radio mike.
   "Ten-four for that good buddy on my back door! You pushin' big wheels or what? Come on back!"
  "If that's you two miles on my front door, good buddy, then its me on your back door an' I got eighteen big round ones! How's about you crank your handle? Bring it back!"
   "You got the Cowboy Poet here. Haulin' forty tons of prime beef to Cow City."
   "Hi there, Poet. This is your old buddy Porcupine Pie. Ain't had a ratchet with you since ... well, I don't know when."
   "Porky! Good to hear you, son! You still a suicide jockey?"
   "Roger on that, Poet. I got nine thousand gallons of high octane jungle juice chasin' my butt."
   "An' you ain't smokin', by chance?"
   "No way! I ain't loco ... yet. Hey, Poet; I got the hammer down an' I'm pushin' nigh-on eight zero but I ain't catchin' you. What you doin', son? Got somethin' hot lined up for tonight?"
   "Negative, good bud. Just truckin' on."
   "Then watch out for them old smokeys. It's still fifty-five in Colorado. I'll watch the back door, you take care of the front."
   "I'm with you on that, Porky. I plan to go square-wheeled at the Bagdad and get some groceries down my neck. You on for that?"
  "That's a big ten-four. It's the only choke-an'-puke this side of Cow City an' my small intestine thinks my mouth's healed up. See you there, Poet!"

The waitress chewed gum and walked like she was rolling a cigarette between her thighs and kneading dough in her rear cleavage.
   "Get you boys anythin'?" She blew a pink bubble, let it deflate and sucked the crinkled gum-sack through her danger-red lips. She didn't do it to appear seductive or anything; to think about appearing seductive required considerably more brain power than she possessed.
   "Yeah. I'll get a burger; monster, with cheese, double onions, mayo, ketchup an' fries. Coffee ... monster. An' apple pie ... monster."
   "Is that double onions, double mayo, double ketchup and double fries?"
   "Double onions."
   "Cream with that pie?"
   "Launch it."
  She cocked her head and arched an enquiring black pencilled eyebrow at the second trucker. Around that stop sign of a mouth there was a conspicuous absence of anything resembling a smile.
   "Gimme ham, eggs sunny, fungus, fries an' rings. Hold the ketchup. Coffee ... monster. Cheesecake an' cream, an' don't dip your friggin' gum in it, OK?"
   As she minced towards the counter Hank cast a glance at her gyrating rear. He pondered how she could walk like that on five inch heels without dislocating something important or wearing out something even more important.
   "Mighty weird, ain't it?" stated Porky as if he had read Hank's brain impulses.
   "Mighty."