Eight or ten of them Irisher constables got here and knocked all seven of them silly. Right now, they’re cooling their heels in the city jail.”

Chapter four, pages 33 and 34. Murphys Diggins

 Here’s a true story for you to match the above. If you’ve never been to jail, don’t go. My first wife and I were heading south one night, she was fifteen, I was eighteen. After drinking the better part of two bottles of champagne, I was feeling no pain. We blasted past a wreck on the highway, and all of the sudden a red flashlight made a dive for the ditch.



‘Steve you almost ran over a cop,” Cindy said, laughing which suddenly stopped when we got pulled over. They got me for contributing, underage possession, endangering a cop, and assorted other crimes including possession of pot, and paraphernalia. And that was after they maced me for trying to eat the pot, which also got me a resisting. I spent seven days in jail before dad bailed me out. In that jail we cooked beans on the same stove used for heat. It was October, the windows were cracked and broken in the single big room. I got out, found Jim and Cindy, plus a few friends and we went back to Colorado. Ah, another pastoral scene in the life of a country hoodlum.