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Late one spring evening well before sundown, Willie Goode rode into the small village of San Antonio, New Mexico. Tying his big red mules at the hitch rail in front of the only bar, he stepped down and stretched his back and stomped his feet getting the circulation flowing again.

Walking around the hitch rail, he was hit in the side of the head with a hard fist. He went to his knees, looking up at three men. He shook his head, got up and walked on into the bar without saying a word. The men laughed and untied his mules, running them down the street.

Willie walked to the bar and said to the bartender, “I’ll have a quarter ounce of your best whiskey.”

“Listen old man, I pour by the ounce. Drink it or leave it.”

With one hand Willie pulled his pepper gray beard away from his mouth, putting the drink to his lips he took a slow sip. Dropping a dime on the bar he turned and walked out.

Those same three men were waiting. “Old man, you look like a prospector. I’ll tell you what, for a pound of gold I won’t take an ounce of yore blood.”

Moving his long hair out of his eyes Willie said, “Best you get the ounce of blood. I don’t got no gold.”

The man hit him right in the mouth, again knocking him to his knees. Without saying a word, Willie got up and walked off down the street looking for his mules.


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